tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33110629208138925312018-03-02T09:26:44.214-08:00Life From ScratchClayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012036308662052455noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3311062920813892531.post-41529138475950110502011-04-01T09:49:00.000-07:002011-04-01T09:49:14.159-07:00Two months and 6,000 miles later; we've come a long way.<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>(This blog post is well over due.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It was written in its entirety well over a month ago and deleted by mistake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I have since rewritten it in parts, but actually starting a life from scratch has at times gotten in the way of my attempt to document it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>A lot has changed since this blog was started, which means there is a lot to catch everyone up on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>In two days, Christina and I will be driving a Budget Truck cross country from Chicago to Evansville, Indiana to Denver, Colorado, where we plan on spending the next few years of our lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>What brought us to Denver was the culmination of a five week, 6,000 mile cross country road trip in search of a new home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I could write a book from all of our experiences driving across this beautiful country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But, what you’ll find below, although abbreviated, is a pretty good start.)</em></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">What is the cost of following your dream?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I woke up this morning freezing cold in a damp tent buried amongst the giants of Redwood National Park in Northern California.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>By late evening, I was in Portland, Oregon in a complete stranger’s living room unpacking my dirty laundry as a very nice, but very obese couple sat in the next room watching.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We had rented a room from </span><a href="http://www.airb&amp;b.com/"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">www.airb&amp;b.com</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">, a service that allows you to rent out rooms in peoples house similar to a bed and breakfast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>But, after three weeks on the road and countless nights spent sleeping on friend’s living room floors, the weight of the task we had undertaken began to wear on me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I try my hardest to be a free spirit. But, the truth is that I’m simply not wired that way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>I come from a play-it-safe, risk adverse family that makes calculated decisions with predictable outcomes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>So, it’s no surprise that at times, the idea that I willfully walked away from a well-paying job and a house that I owned to wonder the country in search of a new home and career in which I have very little industry experience … Well, it’s enough to make me second guess what the fuck I was thinking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But, as I’ve said before, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>change isn’t easy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And, most people avoid it for that very reason.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Sometimes, I think the Winnie from the Wonder Years captured it best: “Change isn’t easy. You fight to hold on and you fight to let go.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>I have not had a home or a job for nearly six months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Uprooting your life and starting a life from scratch comes with its fair share of anxiety.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But, one thing is for sure; it’s an experience I will never forget.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I know what has happened the past six months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I can recount detailed stories of the people I’ve met and the bizarre experiences I’ve shared with them, paint beautiful pictures of the countless landscapes I’ve traveled through and without much hesitation, the hair on my arms will stand up just thinking of the where I’ve been and the enormity of that task that lies ahead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>This, without question, is more than can be said for any previous six month block in my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I can’t tell you what happened last year at this time, or the year before and so on, and so on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>So, if I have gained anything from this experience, it’s that I feel alive again, as if I’m an actual character in shaping the plot that is my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And not just a spectator watching as the weeks and months go by, wondering where the last year had gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I know what has taken place these past six months and likely the months that are to follow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It’s not life one repeat, one day or one week bleeding into the next as it used to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And that alone has been worth it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br /><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"><strong>Nevada</strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We woke up on the Utah/Nevada border and hit the road for California after an especially nasty continental breakfast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>I had pictured Nevada as some flat, brown, featureless landscape with only Reno and Vegas and a whole lot of dust in-between.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I was wrong, it was not featureless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>There is no greater feeling of enlightenment than realizing that which you previously thought to be true was in fact, not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>As we headed west on Highway 80, the mountains did not disappear from my view at any single moment during my drive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>In one afternoon, we drove nearly 400 miles straight through Nevada and if I would have fallen asleep at the wheel, I would have woken up just after passing through Reno after encountering the first turn in nearly six hours of driving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Although certainly not featureless, Nevada is indeed baron.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Every 120 miles or so, groups of small white trailers peppered the landscape, like schools of small fish swimming in an otherwise undistinguishable and un ending mass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>These small communities of 60-100 people were not too different than the pioneers that first passed through Nevada.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>They lived completely isolated from any traditional form of infrastructure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>They used propane for energy and were often times more than a hundred miles from a hospital, school or grocery store.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I was befuddled as we passed these communities, each one more isolated and bizarre than the last.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I couldn’t help but to wonder what would bring someone to live in what was literally the middle of nowhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But, for fear of some Texas Chain Saw Massacre-esque event transpiring, I couldn’t bring myself to turn off and ask them why they had chosen their particular spot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And, even if I had wanted to, there were no roads leading to their communities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span></span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-K3Pk-DMXGSk/TZVKhrYjZEI/AAAAAAAAANA/L_KHuIuVMdE/s1600/CIMG1961.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" r6="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-K3Pk-DMXGSk/TZVKhrYjZEI/AAAAAAAAANA/L_KHuIuVMdE/s640/CIMG1961.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Nevada: Not bad, not bad.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"><strong>California</strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As we rolled through Reno and passed finally into California, it was as if there was someone flipped a switch and the hills and mountainsides came alive with green.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Suddenly, spruce and pine covered every available inch of space as we began to wind our way through the Sierra Nevada’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We had intended to drive straight to San Francisco, but when our lodging fell through, we decided to take a much needed detour to Sonoma to spend a day touring the vineyards and indulge at some of their famous restaurants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We arrived in Sonoma County around 5:30 that evening as the sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting a golden light atop the endless rolling hills of green grass checkered with rows of evenly spaced grape vines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I remember quite clearly the feeling of rolling into Sonoma County.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It was the feeling of entering an environment which I previously though only existed in movies and dreams.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The countryside was beautiful, too beautiful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I felt as if a herd of My Little Ponies would come galloping over the hillside any moment shooting rainbows out of their ass while singing “What a Wonderful World” in unison.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The town of Sonoma did not disappoint or stray far from this fairytale either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It was full of people wearing thatch hats, driving around 1950’s red pick-up trucks with shovels and hoes rattling around in the bed and Golden Retrievers sticking their head out the passenger window. Sonoma was indeed more beautiful than any work of fiction could have ever portrayed it to be.</span><br />﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6UC00dLCPlE/TZVL_zMXFRI/AAAAAAAAANE/zWFs9oxVW54/s1600/CIMG1998.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" r6="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6UC00dLCPlE/TZVL_zMXFRI/AAAAAAAAANE/zWFs9oxVW54/s640/CIMG1998.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Somewhere outside of San Francisco</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Later that evening, we strolled around town before heading to the Girl and the Fig to treat ourselves to a dinner that did not come with the directions “add water and microwave”, as we had become accustomed to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It was well deserved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We ordered two flights of red wine, beef tartar, duck confit and Crème Brule.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I finished off our delicious meal with a twelve-year-old scotch and for the first time in quite a while, I did not feel like some homeless, jobless vagabond wandering around while reality was on hold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>We slept well that night and woke up the next morning to tour some wineries before heading to Woodside to visit a friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>As we drove around the next morning, both Christina and I fell more in love with Sonoma with each passing block.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It was the type of place I had only dreamed of living, was the idea really that farfetched?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>As the day rolled on, we began to talk seriously about moving to Sonoma.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And, the subsequent wine tastings did not discourage our banter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>By the time we hit the road later on that afternoon, Sonoma had climbed to the top of our list of places to live.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hJ9qH_7YzjY/TZVXcARirII/AAAAAAAAAN0/aIL8L_l3xpo/s1600/DSC_0063.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="427" r6="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hJ9qH_7YzjY/TZVXcARirII/AAAAAAAAAN0/aIL8L_l3xpo/s640/DSC_0063.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">I made it!&nbsp; My inner-hippie rejoiced at this sight.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We spent the following six days visiting a friend in Woodside, California as we explored the areas surrounding San Francisco.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It did not take much for me to fall in love with Northern California.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>As a kid I always dreamed of living someplace beautiful and there are few places more beautiful and alive than Northern California.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>As we winded along Highway 101 with waves crashing into jagged rock on the left and Redwoods towering over us on the right, I couldn’t help but to picture Christina and I spending the rest of our lives surrounded by this beautiful landscape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>But, as we spent more and more time in Northern California, one thing became glaringly apparent; Northern California was a land of extremes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It is a land of extreme beauty with extremely wealthy people and extremely isolated communities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>San Francisco is one of the most expensive cities in the U.S.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>And, if we wanted to live in or around it, we would have to pay the price financially. But, after living in a condo for the past five years, I couldn’t stomach renting out a studio for $2,000 a month.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>In fact, one of the reasons we left Chicago was to have more space.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>So, after spending time touring everywhere from Berkeley, to San Francisco, to Santa Cruz, we realized that Northern California may have been a pipe dream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>If we weren’t going to live in one of the cities near San Francisco, we would have to settle for a small town buried deep within the Redwood Forests or one of the quirky towns dotting the Pacific coast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But, living in a town with less people than my graduating high school class wasn’t going to cut it either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>So, after a fulfilled week in and around San Fran, we hit the road and headed north toward the Redwoods.</span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0n0IgBA7ioM/TZVWTnwoU6I/AAAAAAAAANw/TY3szwXMdbI/s1600/DSC_0056.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" r6="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0n0IgBA7ioM/TZVWTnwoU6I/AAAAAAAAANw/TY3szwXMdbI/s640/DSC_0056.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">San Fran.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"><strong>Redwoods</strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After spending a day in Berkeley, driving around and seeking out the unique places I had jotted down in chicken scratch in a San Francisco coffee shop, we hit the road on our way to Redwoods National park.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Before long, we were back in Sonoma County, passing through nearly a hundred miles of vineyards with tiny wine towns strewn intermittently along the way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I knew California grew its fair share of wine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But, vineyards plastered the hillsides like corn farms in Iowa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>For almost a hundred miles we passed nothing but vineyards and it was beautiful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Much to Christina’s growing annoyance, I struggled to keep my eyes on the road, but the beautiful rolling hills kept drawing them back in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Things started to change once we passed through Cloverdale, CA (popularly known as the place where the vineyards meet the redwoods).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>At this point during the drive, we were supposed to head straight toward the coast and to Hwy 101.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But, our GPS had alternative plans and instead, it directed toward Highway 128. It did not take long before we started questioning whether something had gone awry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But, we stuck to the road anyway and what an adventure it was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Highway 128 is a one lane country road winding continuously through some of the most remote parts of Northern California before eventually running into HWY 101 some 75 miles of twisted asphalt later, somewhere in the middle of Mendocino County.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But, in spite of our mistake, we passed through some of the most remote beautiful countryside we had seen yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>In awe that we were still on Earth and not in fact dreaming, I stopped the car often to take pictures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>If you are under the impression that California is a state full of huge cities, liberal elitists and yuppies, than I suggest you take a drive through the state as I did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Because in between San Francisco and Crescent City, it seems a lot more like Montana or Idaho than it does California.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We passed through countless towns buried deep in the woods with populations as low as sixty-five and usually no higher than two hundred people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Towns like the ones we passed through in Nevada, where people lived only off of propane that was delivered monthly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>But, in a place as fruitful as California, the land of milk and honey, who needs a grocery store?</span><br /><br />﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-knXlhFnOz1E/TZVNgvblM5I/AAAAAAAAANI/kCtLiNTFTsc/s1600/DSC_0110.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" r6="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-knXlhFnOz1E/TZVNgvblM5I/AAAAAAAAANI/kCtLiNTFTsc/s640/DSC_0110.JPG" width="428" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Not everyday you drive through a tree.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ <span style="font-family: Calibri;">Eventually we made our way to the Redwood National Park, where we spent the next few days camping, hiking through the giant Redwood forests and collecting oddly shaped driftwood beside the golden sandstone bluffs that overlooked the beach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The Redwoods were one of the most beautiful sights I had ever seen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Walking through the Redwood forest amongst 3,000 year old giants, you feel as if you are on the set of Jurassic Park.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And the truth is, you’re not far off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Fern Canyon, one of the areas where we spent the afternoon hiking, was in fact used in the filming of Jurassic park.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>When you’re in place as majestic as the Redwoods, there is little need for special effects.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Things simply don’t get much more beautiful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>Our time spent in the Redwoods was much needed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Outside of a trip into town (pop. 167) where Christina and I chewed the fat with a wood carver who graciously donated us a truck load of firewood, Christina and I spent our time in the forest alone, with only each other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>But after a few days spent sleeping in tents and sleeping bags that weren’t graded for the February weather, we were ready to hit the road and head to Oregon.</span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AKwI0hy0uag/TZVRgGcU9OI/AAAAAAAAANc/lNTKKG3tiQg/s1600/DSC_0196.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" r6="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AKwI0hy0uag/TZVRgGcU9OI/AAAAAAAAANc/lNTKKG3tiQg/s640/DSC_0196.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Believe it or not, there is a radio station for elk in N. California.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><br />﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bRLBgLEDr40/TZVQk3J_YqI/AAAAAAAAANY/QE-N_EnETD8/s1600/DSC_0184.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" r6="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bRLBgLEDr40/TZVQk3J_YqI/AAAAAAAAANY/QE-N_EnETD8/s640/DSC_0184.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Just think.&nbsp; That's not even the whole tree.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>Oregon</strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In between Crescent City California and Portland, Oregon, there’s not much except trees and Indian Reservations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It was a strange sight to see a sign that read “You are not entering the sovereign nation of the Urduk”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And, it was an even stranger sight to walk into a gas station that was both a Subway and a Casino and run entirely by Urduk Indians.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Part of me wanted to shake their hand and apologize for the white man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But, instead I grabbed an energy drink before hopping back into my 4-Runner and settling into another long but beautiful drive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Some eight hours later, Christina and I ended up in the Hawthorne Neighborhood of Portland, parked outside the place we would be staying for the next few days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We reeked of campfire and had not showered in days, so I was a bit nervous before ringing this complete stranger’s doorbell whose living room I would soon be sleeping in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I anticipated an awkward encounter and I was not mistaken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>An obese woman answered the door and her husband followed soon after.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Their profile on Air B&amp;B said that they were an active couple who enjoyed hiking and skiing in the mountains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Somehow, I think they may have embellished a little.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>After a forced and relatively awkward ten minute conversation standing in their living room with our suitcases by ourside, they finally got the hint and let us be alone to shower and clean up.</span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-m4MkG902DvQ/TZVSfWl2zmI/AAAAAAAAANg/Ug1V2OoO240/s1600/CIMG2071.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" r6="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-m4MkG902DvQ/TZVSfWl2zmI/AAAAAAAAANg/Ug1V2OoO240/s640/CIMG2071.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Mutlnomah Falls (30 minutes outside Portland)</span></strong><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vk3E_NEo_6U/TZVURn1kodI/AAAAAAAAANo/73TRjzoj7DU/s1600/CIMG2055.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" r6="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vk3E_NEo_6U/TZVURn1kodI/AAAAAAAAANo/73TRjzoj7DU/s640/CIMG2055.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Day hike.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The next few days in Portland were perfect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We spent each afternoon touring all of the large neighborhoods, we didn’t get lost and more importantly, we began to fall in love with the city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It was both a city and a town and it was really charming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It reminded me of Bloomington, Indiana (one of my favorite places on earth) but bigger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Each neighborhood was quirky, had its own distinct character and identity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The line between town and large city was completely blurred.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It was, as far as we were concerned, exactly what we were looking for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>After less than 48 hours in Portland, both Christina and I were sold on the place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>So, we decided to take Sunday off and enjoy the Super bowl, optimistic that we had found the place we were looking for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>After Portland, Seattle was the only place left to mark off our lists.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span></span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uenUZGWskAE/TZVTb-wcxcI/AAAAAAAAANk/W7id0FCuOzM/s1600/CIMG2066.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" r6="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uenUZGWskAE/TZVTb-wcxcI/AAAAAAAAANk/W7id0FCuOzM/s640/CIMG2066.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>A day hike.</strong></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After a night of watching the Super bowl while drinking red wine (it was all we had) and munching on spicy black bean dip, I awoke at 4 a.m. to an unpleasant feeling in my stomach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Before long I was hugging the toilet and trying my hardest to keep my internal organs from joining the rest of whatever was floating in the now colorful toilet water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I stumbled back to bed and laid there shivering with a high fever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>In less than three hours, we were to hit the road for Seattle where we would spend the next few days touring the city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Great.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">On the morning we drove to Seattle, I was suffering from the stomach flu and convinced my life was going to come to an abrupt end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It was all I could do to dress myself and throw my clothes, unfolded into my suitcase.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Luckily, I had a copilot who could take over as captain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Christina drove to Seattle as I shivered in the passenger seat with a hat and wool socks on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>A few hours later, we arrived downtown at the Holiday in where a cheery man who worked the front desk greeted us and began to walk us through a map of the city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Sensing my disdain for anything other than a bed and a blanket, the man handed over our keys and Christina and I, both tired from a month on the road, headed toward the room where we spent the balance of the day watching TV and napping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>We spent the next few days driving around the city, touching all of the important neighborhoods in spite of the fact that I was still feeling like a bowl full of asshole.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>It was a beautiful, cultured and surprisingly cosmopolitan city. It had access to the mountains and the ocean and everything that comes with living in a big city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But, it quickly became apparent that Seattle was a city and only a city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And, unless we could to buy or rent a million dollar house, we would be forced to rent a tiny apartment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We left Chicago for a number of reasons, but one of them was to have more space.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>So, after a light speed tour of Seattle, we decided that although it was a great city, it simply fell short.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And, just like that our tour of the Western United States was over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>So, later that night as we sat on the bed Indian style with instant soup cooking on our camper stove in the corner, Christina and I both agreed that Portland had won our vote. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span>And, we set forth plans to return the following day and begin the tedious task of starting a new life in Portland… or so I thought.</span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-39ht185JVyA/TZYAYMAtjQI/AAAAAAAAAN4/d4XSRZfN7j4/s1600/DSC_0044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" r6="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-39ht185JVyA/TZYAYMAtjQI/AAAAAAAAAN4/d4XSRZfN7j4/s640/DSC_0044.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Somewhere on the Pacific Coast.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"><strong>Portland Round II</strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">When we drove into Portland the second time around, it didn’t seem quite the same as I remembered it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Perhaps it was now falling under more scrutiny because the reality began to hit that this place was indeed my future home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But, as we passed through Washington State and right into Portland, the city seemed grey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Everything about it seemed grey; the color of the sky, the old buildings stained grey with acid rain, even the rivers and the bridges.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>As we crossed over the Willamette River, I felt as if I was entering a coal mining town in Pennsylvania and not my future home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We found our way to Motel 6 on the outskirts of town, right next door to a strip club.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We had planned on it being our home base for the next week or two as we searched for temporary housing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But, after changing rooms twice because they were clearly not non-smoking and after realizing that the Wi-Fi which we had paid for wasn’t even working, we demanded a refund and hightailed to another cheap motel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>We soon found ourselves at the Briarwood Suites, a fifty dollar a night motel outside of downtown Portland popular with prostitutes and druggies, where we would spend the next week trying to get our Portland dream off the ground.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">That first night, as we sat in our motel room under dimly lit florescent lights, the enormity of the task we had undertaken began to get to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We were far from home, really, really far.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And, we were attempting to find a home and start a life in a place where we did not know a living soul. Much less, I had never met anyone who had even lived in Portland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>What was I thinking?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Were we ready to drop everything and move to a city we had only spent 48 hours in?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>As it turns out, there is more than one answer to that question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The truth is, we had already dropped everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Christina and I were both jobless and both homeless by choice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We had chosen to go on this adventure together and now, finally, we were both being dealt a strong dose of reality. Christina was ready and I simply wasn’t.</span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-M2iExBQ98iY/TZYA0Q2lRXI/AAAAAAAAAN8/F3qBcURTTx4/s1600/CIMG2089.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" r6="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-M2iExBQ98iY/TZYA0Q2lRXI/AAAAAAAAAN8/F3qBcURTTx4/s640/CIMG2089.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Ahh, nothing like a home-cooked meal.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We spent the next week holed up in our crumby motel room, fastidiously checking for rentals on craigslist, rarely leaving except to pick up some sandwiches at the Safeway down the street. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>It was nearly the end of February, the clock was ticking to find a rental and we were having little luck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I had barely ventured out of our motel room, but Portland was beginning to wear on me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Then it dawned on me that I had not seen the sun the entirety of the time that we were in Portland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Why?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Because it had also not stopped raining the entire time we were in Portland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>After a quick Google search, I stumbled on Portland weather statistics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Only 70 days of sunshine a year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Someone had once described to me that living in Portland is like living in a cloud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It’s always wet and you rarely see the sun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The weather was the first domino to fall, but for me and only me, the rest fell relatively quickly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I also came to find out that Denver has one of the most depressed job markets in the entire country next to Detroit, which I was reminded of nearly every time I mentioned to anyone in Portland that I was moving there without a job. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Over the course of the week we spent in the motel room, I quickly fell out of love with Portland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The weather the distance from friends and family and the nagging feeling of being alone, completely isolated and nearly as far away from everything I knew as possible quickly began to wear on me. Christina, on the other hand, was as ready to move to Portland as ever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But, as it came time to sign a short term lease in an apartment complex, my cold feet got to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We had been approved for the application process and everything, all we needed to do was drop off the deposit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But, when we woke up that morning, I broke down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I simply couldn’t do it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I had too many reservations and it simply didn’t feel right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>So, instead of heading to the apartment complex to drop off our deposit, we packed our bags, loaded up the car and headed to Denver, where there are over 300 days of sunshine a year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I dropped Christina off at the airport two days later and crashed on a friends couch as I began to look for jobs and houses, of which I now have both.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And, as I type these very words, I am two hours away from a flight that will take me back to Chicago where I will pick up a moving truck and move Christina and I out here, along with our dogs and all of our belongings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The journey to get to this point has not been easy one.&nbsp;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>At times, it’s been defeating.&nbsp; And although the feeling of anxiety about the future rarely subsides, neither does the feeling that I can change my future at anytime.&nbsp; Its a powerful feeling when you realize that if you want to do something, you can simply do it.&nbsp; You just have to try...&nbsp; Thanks for following along.</span><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-v0XzGm6KAZw/TZYBSaj3o0I/AAAAAAAAAOA/HIPKOq0LNoU/s1600/DSC_0202.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" r6="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-v0XzGm6KAZw/TZYBSaj3o0I/AAAAAAAAAOA/HIPKOq0LNoU/s640/DSC_0202.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">My life is now complete...</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div align="left">﻿</div>Clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012036308662052455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3311062920813892531.post-57243083274209817352011-01-26T20:38:00.000-08:002011-01-26T20:59:56.439-08:00Our cross-country trip in search of a new home: Chicago-> Denver-> Utah<span lang=""><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong><u>Denver to Utah</u></strong></span></span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">In what seemed like a sequence from some old zombie movie or a "Tales From The Cript" short, Christina and I rolled into the eerily small and isolated border town of Wendover, as the sunset against surrounding sandstone cliffs and bounced off the Utah salt flats. I walked in to one of the towns only two hotels half expecting the receptionist to turn around with blood shot eyes wanting to suck my blood or eat my brains. Much to my delight, it was a cheery Indian fella curious as to how and why I found myself in the isolated desert town Wendover which borders the Nevada state line. "Going to California?" he asked. He knew too well that the only reason people find themselves in such a place is after having succumbed to fatigue after countless hours on the road. And, after having driven completely across both Colorado and Utah in a single day, he was dead on. Christina and I were both tired and heading to California.</span><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TUDvQkpvCaI/AAAAAAAAAMM/AvWTt1VkZJs/s1600/CIMG1954.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" s5="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TUDvQkpvCaI/AAAAAAAAAMM/AvWTt1VkZJs/s640/CIMG1954.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">20 Miles outside of Wendover, Utah.</span></div><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">The drive from Denver clear across Colorado and Utah was without question the most spectacular and beautiful drive I have ever made. I quickly found myself questioning why I had not seen these sights before, why I had not made this drive before and why I was so oblivious as to their existence. I knew the answer to all of these things, but I wanted to take notes so I could return and explore each nook and cranny of every mountain, canyon, mesa, plateau and valley we passed in my Toyota 4 Runner over the course of the day. I was completely overcome with both the beauty of the terrain and the idea that all of this existed in our own country. Jesus, I was so enthralled I lost track of the number of times I veered off the shoulder and onto rigid lines cut into the pavement warning drivers of their impending death and dismemberment. Having just traveled almost the entire continent of S. America by bus, impressing me with landscape was no easy feat .</span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TUD0gYeA_WI/AAAAAAAAAMY/yDdb0EuvFnc/s1600/CIMG1908.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" s5="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TUD0gYeA_WI/AAAAAAAAAMY/yDdb0EuvFnc/s640/CIMG1908.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>Somewhere between Colorado and Nevada.</strong></span></div><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">&nbsp;As we winded our way through the Colorado Rockies, through the Vail Pass at over 10,000 feet and the blinding snow-covered mountains, the terrain began to transform by the mile marker. Wide valleys gave way to narrow canyons as the Colorado river snaked it's way underneath us and in between the vertical rock walls around us. Before long, the snow had dissipated with red sandstone and green Aspen taking its place, permeating nearly every inch of available earth around us. And, as if there were some imaginary line drawn across the earth, mountain tops appeared sheared off and in it's place were countless mesas as far as the eye could see.</span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TUDv_7rRcFI/AAAAAAAAAMQ/1fmT194IcYw/s1600/CIMG1939.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" s5="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TUDv_7rRcFI/AAAAAAAAAMQ/1fmT194IcYw/s640/CIMG1939.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>Highway 6, Utah.</strong></span></div><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">&nbsp;Somewhere before turning onto U.S. Highway 6, we passed through Green River, Utah in search of fuel for both my car and Christina and I.<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TUDvCsctjeI/AAAAAAAAAMI/qNUHa_sN9VI/s1600/CIMG1930.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" s5="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TUDvCsctjeI/AAAAAAAAAMI/qNUHa_sN9VI/s640/CIMG1930.JPG" width="640" /></a></span><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>Green River, Utah (middle of nowhere)</strong></span></div><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">&nbsp;Green River, Utah is a town that exists in some sort of forgotten Western Norman Rockwell-esque time capsule. You can call it a town or a strip pavement in the middle of nowhere, but it was the only thing between us and 139 miles of nothing before the next gas station. And when we arrived, my car slowed to nearly a snails pace as Christina and I gaped at the town that time forgot. I stopped my car at a local gas station in an atempt to capture the gargantuan mesa's that peppered the background (I failed). Over the course of the next six hours, we cut right across the entire state of Utah. As we winded our way through endless canyonlands, past Salt Lake City and onto the perspective bending Salt Flats.</span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TUD0V0k6GLI/AAAAAAAAAMU/2MlBuRZATZ8/s1600/CIMG1950.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" s5="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TUD0V0k6GLI/AAAAAAAAAMU/2MlBuRZATZ8/s640/CIMG1950.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Salt Lake City, Utah</span></strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">&nbsp;The resemblance to Bolivia was uncanny. Christina and I stopped at a rest station outside of Wendover just in time to watch the sun drop behind the sandstone outcroppings and dissipate into a single ray of light along the salt flat. Am I really in the U.S?</span><br /><u><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>Denver and our trip out there </strong></span></u></div><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">On January 20th, Christina and I left Chicago at 4:00 a.m. bound for Denver, Colorado. Our goal was to make the 1005 mile drive in a single day and we were hell bent on doing so. We had visited both Denver and Boulder, CO nine months prior in search of a new place to call home, but we were far from sold on either city. At the time, Denver seemed like Indianapolis in the mountains and I could not get past the hoards of twenty-something college students in Boulder sporting dreadlocks and driving Mercedes' with "Free Tibet" stickers on the back. The irony and hypocrisy was a bit too thick to swallow. But, in spite of its short comings, Denver impressed us enough to warrant a return and possibly a second chance on our trip out West in search of a new home (once again). This time around, we stayed with one of my best friends who showed us around the city. On our previous trip to Denver, Christina and I had rented a car and driven around the city, trying our best to tour the most popular neighborhoods. It was overwhelming and anticlimactic. But, having a host and a friend who knows the city you're visiting really helps to show you what a city is all about. We walked countless miles both downtown and in the surrounding neighborhoods. We ventured out to bars and met countless locals who were both intrigued by our story and eager sell us on Denver, a city they all clearly loved. During our six days in Denver, we did not cross paths with one person who was not overwhelmingly passionate about their city, which made an impression on us. We took one day and ventured our to Rocky Mountain National Park to spend the day snowshoeing.</span><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TUDuIVOYaII/AAAAAAAAAMA/Ib3WoFIQr-Y/s1600/CIMG1889.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><strong><img border="0" height="480" s5="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TUDuIVOYaII/AAAAAAAAAMA/Ib3WoFIQr-Y/s640/CIMG1889.JPG" width="640" /></strong></a><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>On our way into Rocky Mountain National Park.</strong></span></div><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">&nbsp;Above all else, Christina and I wanted to move out West to be closer to the outdoors and the mountains, something we were both passionate about. On January 24th, we packed our backpacks, rented snowshoes and woke up early to head for Rocky Mountain National Park. It was a beautiful day, but we both bit off a bit more than we should have. We headed five miles into the wilderness and 1,500 vertical feet up into a small valley between two mountains at 11,000 feet.&nbsp;But, the bitter cold and altitude had wore us both down a bit more than we had anticipated along the way and the five miles back seemed painfu,l and it was. All of our water and our food and water were frozen rock solid and our camera would not work because of the cold. But, with the sun quickly fading, we managed to make it back to my car just before the worry set in. In spite of it all, it was a great day.</span><br /><u><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"></span></u><br /><strong><u><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">January 25, 2011.</span></u></strong><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">The following day (yesterday) was my birthday. I am now 28 years old. When I was younger and had little concept of age. I always thought that at 28 I would be living in some non-descript culdesac, married to a beautiful woman with whom I would be on my way to raising a pack of young children who would run wildly around the neighborhood causing all sorts of trouble as I did when I was a child. Instead, in some bizarre twist of fate and irony; I am the child and not the adult raising children. Although I'm older than I've ever been, I feel like I'm viewing the world through the eyes of a child; it's a beautiful and refreshing thing. Instead of diggin though the dirt in search of treasure, I am blazing a trail across the country with my best friend (and girlfriend) in search of a different kind of treasure; a place to call home.</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">I spent my birthday in a cabin in Breckenridge amongst the company of two great friends from Chicago and Christina; all of us the nearly the same age and all of us reflecting on what it meant to grow older. But, to me, what it means at this very moment can be summed up in Birthday card I received from a friend:</span><br /><i><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Courier New&quot;, Courier, monospace;"><strong>"<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Here's to new beginnings and happy endings. Here's to dreams coming true and wishes being granted. Here's to trying new things and growing wiser and better with each passing year... Here's to days in the sun and nights out under the stars. Here's to moments of quiet reflection and laughing as loud as you can,. Here's to another year of celebrating life every chance you get..."</span></span></strong></span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Thanks for following along on this crazy journey that has become my life. We will arrive in San Francisco tomorrow.</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Clay</span></span><br /><div style="text-align: center;">﻿</div><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"></span>Clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012036308662052455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3311062920813892531.post-925951394595873512011-01-19T19:50:00.000-08:002011-01-19T19:50:23.357-08:00American Road Trip: 5,000 miles cross-country in search of new home<strong><em><span style="font-family: &quot;Courier New&quot;, Courier, monospace;"><u>"Go West, young man!"</u></span></em></strong><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Every child has a dream.&nbsp; When I was a child, I dreamt of moving out West and spending my days amongst the greatest playground of them all; the mountains of the American west.&nbsp; After I graduated from college, I tried my best to find a job out West that would that would pacify this desire. Unfortunately, not too many people were jumping to give an entry-level job to&nbsp;a twenty-two-year-old journalism graduate from Indiana.&nbsp; The 3,000 miles between myself and any foreseeable&nbsp;job opportunity did not seem to help.&nbsp; As anxiety and fear crept in, I began looking for a&nbsp;job closer to home base. Not only did I let that dream die, but I also gave up on finding a job in photography and fine arts&nbsp;and instead&nbsp;decided to pursue some job leads that seemed more promising.&nbsp; Not too long after, I&nbsp;found myself sitting in a cubicle in&nbsp;Chicago&nbsp;working&nbsp;as an&nbsp;advertising sales rep&nbsp;for the Chicago Tribune Co.&nbsp; As&nbsp;it turned out, I had landed a great job in a great city.&nbsp; But, for whom?&nbsp; It did not take long before the new job and new city lost it's luster and I began looking for a way out of both.&nbsp; </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Less than three years after my arrival in Chicago, I was on a plane bound for San Diego with three of my best friends&nbsp;in search of someplace better. We spent four days seeking out the best San Diego had to offer, but we were sold after day one.&nbsp; I absolutely fell in love with San Diego. Unfortunately, around the same time, I&nbsp;was also&nbsp;falling in love with a girl I had been dating long distance.&nbsp; Her name was Christina and we have now been dating for three years. I gave up on the&nbsp;idea of moving out West once again, but this time I knew the&nbsp;reason was worthwhile.&nbsp; A short time later, Christina left Nashville and moved to Chicago (her hometown) to attend graduate school. Eventually, even after multiple trips out West to scout out potential new&nbsp;homes, I gave up on the idea of moving westward and settled on moving to Nashville with Christina&nbsp;after we made our great escape from Chicago. My house had not sold after nearly a year on the market and I suddenly was feeling too old to uproot and move to a place where I (we) would be completely isolated.&nbsp; I let the dream die again.&nbsp; Period.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">If you've read even a snippet of this blog, you know that after much turmoil, I made it out of Chicago and down to S. America where I traveled with Christina for 2.5 months. We've now been back from S. America for just less than a month.&nbsp; But, during our trip up, down and sideways across the continent, I changed.&nbsp; Travel is a powerful thing.&nbsp; Walk down a single street in a single country and it can forever change the way you perceive the world. Travel will open your eyes, it will stump and befuddle you and it will deconstruct countless preconceived notions and replace them with an even stranger reality.&nbsp; All of this leads&nbsp;to an overwhelming sense of awe and wonder at the&nbsp;unknown and an urgency to explore it.&nbsp;&nbsp;While traveling I&nbsp;saw and experienced things I had&nbsp;only dreamt of.&nbsp; And, I met people from all walks of life and every age imaginable doing all sorts of unimaginable things. These people broke the mold; the age mold.&nbsp; And after meeting one too many of these people to count, I realized an important lesson. Something&nbsp;I had tried hard to practice, but always&nbsp;unsuccessfully so; ones life does not have to be lived according to society's prefabricated time line.&nbsp; I&nbsp;now realize&nbsp;that age&nbsp;REALLY is just a number and not a state of mind or even necessarily&nbsp;a state in ones life.&nbsp; And, outside of a few biological limitations, you can do whatever the hell you want with it.&nbsp; If you think you need to own your own home and have children by the time you are twenty seven simply because Ward and June Cleaver did, well-you don't.&nbsp; So, when we got back from our trip, feeling more empowered than ever and ready to take on the world, we decided that perhaps one more look at the West was in order.&nbsp; And, one subsequent four day visit to Nashville wiped out any shred of doubt as to whether or not we were ready to move there; we were not. When I left Chicago, I promised myself that I would not compromise and settle for&nbsp;a future that I did not want.&nbsp;Constant compromise is how I found myself staying too long in a job I saw no future in. Certainly, compromise is a part of human interaction and an unavoidable part of life.&nbsp; But if you have a goal, why&nbsp;not shoot for the goal?&nbsp;&nbsp;What's the point striving for something slightly less than you actually want? </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">&nbsp; So here we are. As I write this&nbsp;post, we are six hours away from beginning our journey across the country and up the&nbsp;Western coast of the United&nbsp;States. My car is&nbsp;brimming with camping gear, luggage and road snacks for the 5,000+ mile journey.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To save money, we plan to stay with friends, camp where possible and eat lots&nbsp;tuna and crackers in lieu of countless Big Macs.&nbsp;Besides exploring our own country and getting&nbsp;the piece of mind&nbsp;I need, our goal for this trip is&nbsp;simple: find a place to call home. Outside of a&nbsp;book on&nbsp;National Parks and a trip outline drafted in chicken scratch, we've planned sparingly for this trip. But, as I've learned lately, this trip is just as much about the journey as the destination. I've included a brief outline of our trip below.&nbsp; But, if you are reading this and you think you know of a city we may love, please comment and let us know.&nbsp;&nbsp;</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><strong><u>American Road Trip</u></strong></span><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Chicago, IL&nbsp;--&gt; Denver, CO</span><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Denver, CO --&gt; Moab, UT&nbsp;(camping in both Arches National Park and Canyonlands)</span><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Moab, UT--&gt; Battle Mountain, NV</span><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Battle Mountain, NV--&gt; San Francisco, CA</span><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">San Francisco, CA--&gt; Redwoods National Park (camping for a few nights)</span><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Redwoods National Park--&gt; Portland, OR</span><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Portland, OR--&gt; Seattle, WA</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I will continue posting as we arrive in different destinations.&nbsp; Thanks for following along on this journey.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Clay</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">&nbsp; </span>Clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012036308662052455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3311062920813892531.post-14863873727337971782011-01-04T09:15:00.000-08:002011-01-04T10:20:05.768-08:00Life after travel and "The Death Road"<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">In only 48 hours time, I went from walking the beaches of Lima, Peru to walking the aisles of Schnuck's Supermarket in Evansville, Indiana, surrounded by teenage girls wearing Uggs and red necks wearing camouflage coveralls. The change had been so abrupt, it left me questioning whether the last 2.5 months were real, or simply a fairytale I had imagined. Things were suddenly so normal that I felt just the opposite; completely abnormal. I had spent the last 2.5 months having a new and sometimes scary experiences nearly every minute of every day in a completely foreign land and in what seemed like an instant, I was back stateside as if nothing had changed. And the truth is that nothing had changed; except for me. To everyone else, I was and continue to be the same old Clay.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">While traveling, I formed bonds with a handful of great travel mates. And they, like many other people I encountered while tramping around S. America were traveling for extended periods of time. Most people I met were traveling for at least six months, many were traveling for a year or longer: visiting India, Southeast Asia, S. America, Australia, New Zealand and more in single extended trip. We met these people with such frequency that I began to question why I was not doing the same? After all, what did I have to go back to? I had quit my job, rented out my house and stored everything away to find a new city, travel and start a new life. Even I sometimes forget that this is not a travel blog, this is a blog about starting over, hitting the restart button and creating a new life from scratch. Travel happens to be a part of my life right now, but the real adventure is yet to come. I've always wondered what happens to people who drop everything to pursue their dreams. It didn’t occur to me until recently that I am now one of those people. This acknowledgement came with a powerful realization: the only person in the world preventing me from doing anything is me.</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">When it came down to the brass tax on deciding whether or not to travel more, Christina and I were travel weary and hesitant to miss the holidays with our families. I was especially weary of missing Christmas because my family would not be together in its entirety for another two years. In the end, we decided to compromise; when we returned, we would pack my car and head due west for the ultimate cross country American road trip. I no doubt have traveled more extensively outside of my own country than within it. And, since I was a teenager, I had dreamed of doing such a trip. True, February is certainly not the ideal month to travel in the States. But, when presented with a once in lifetime opportunity, it's best not to let "good enough" be the enemy of "perfect". So, for now, I am delaying the start of my new life and deciding to hit the road once again. After all life will always be there waiting when I get back. So, sometime in February, we will be packing up my car and heading West. We plan to visit as many National Parks as possible and camp when the weather is reasonable. But, if you want a visit from Uncle Clay and Aunt Christina, please let us know. We'd love to see you!</span> </span><br /><br /><span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong><u>The Death Road</u></strong></span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">One of the most memorable experiences of my entire life was mountain biking down The Death Road connecting La Paz and Corioco Bolivia. I first heard of The Death Road when I was fifteen years old while watching a documentary on the Discovery Channel. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine I would be flying down it on a mountain bike twelve years later. It's called The Death Road for one very obvious reason: for more than a decade it held the title as the worlds deadliest stretch of road. Each year more than a hundred people would meet their maker on the death road, or more accurately, in the ravine at the bottom. The Death Road is a 56 mile stretch of gravel about the width of a full size van. It winds precariously through the mountains, it has two-way traffic and one side it has a continuous drop of nearly 2,000 feet to the jungle below. Thousands of people have died on The Death Road and the casualties are not the result of auto collisions, but vehicles plummeting off the narrow stretch of gravel to the jungle below. Four years ago, the Bolivian government began building a new stretch of road to replace the Death Road, eventually leading to the closure of The Death Road for all auto traffic. During that time, an enterprising New Zealander decided that The Death Road would make for a wicked mountain bike ride. He opened "Gravity Assisted Mountain Biking" and began weekly tours of The Death Road. Some four years later, there are over 20 companies that offer death defying mountain bike trips down The Death Road.</span></span></span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TSNRCcYQBpI/AAAAAAAAALM/-00U9fzJMr8/s1600/La+Paz+%252812%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" n4="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TSNRCcYQBpI/AAAAAAAAALM/-00U9fzJMr8/s640/La+Paz+%252812%2529.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>La Paz: 13,450 ft</strong>.</span><br /><span lang="EN"></span>﻿ <br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif; font-size: small;">While traveling though S. America, we ran into quite a few people who had visited Bolivia and biked the Death Road. The reviews, however, varied greatly. While some people regarded the experience as amazing and once in a lifetime, other regarded the experience as reckless, dangerous and regrettable. The latter left Christina weary of signing up for such madness. I, on the other hand, was more excited than ever. In the end, the amount of positive reviews slightly outweighed the negative and, with some careful poking and prodding, I was able to convince Christina to do The Death Road with me. Luckily, while tramping through the Bolivian desert, we met two French girls who gave us recommendation on an outfitter. Biking The Death Road is kind of like sky diving; it is not a service where you want to seek out the best bargain, unless your willing to bargain with your life or all of your font teeth. We paid 400 Bolivianos a piece and signed up with "Pro Downhill" our 2nd day in La Paz.</span></div><div align="left"><br /></div><span lang="EN"><div align="left"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The morning of our bike ride, we were picked up by Louis, a gregarious, short and stalky Bolivian missing one of his incisors. We were led outside to our minivan, which held five mountain bikes on the roof. Inside the van was Ana, a German med school student who would rounded out our group of three. After throwing back a banana and a chocolate bar, we began our journey deep into the mountains where The Death Road begins at 15,400 feet. After over an hour in the car, we had reached our destination. We would start our trip on the new road, in the freezing cold, amid jagged snow capped mountains and glaciers before entering the official "Death Road". </span></div><div align="left">﻿ </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TSNSKOgEpII/AAAAAAAAALQ/tXB8QbFlUh0/s1600/La+Paz+%252845%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" n4="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TSNSKOgEpII/AAAAAAAAALQ/tXB8QbFlUh0/s640/La+Paz+%252845%2529.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>All geared up and ready to roll.</strong></span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TSNSO6zRqVI/AAAAAAAAALU/OvsiKZL3atA/s1600/La+Paz+%252847%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" n4="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TSNSO6zRqVI/AAAAAAAAALU/OvsiKZL3atA/s640/La+Paz+%252847%2529.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">﻿The beginning of the "New Road".</span></strong></div><span lang="EN"><div align="left"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif; font-size: small;">As we jumped out of the van, I was anxious to see our gear. Your gear and the quality of the mountain bike on which you are riding is what separates most tour operators, but the trip is the same for everyone. You begin at 15,400 feet before making your way down through the mountains and into the jungle, where you will eventually stop at 3,000 feet after riding 56 miles straight downhill. I was not interested in the pedals on my mountain bike, I knew I would not need them. I was however, extremely anxious to try out the breaks. If your breaks fail you on The Death Road, you will likely be one of the 40 people who have plummeted to their death while mountain biking on it. My bike seemed to be pretty nice, considering the abuse it had suffered. It had both front and back suspension and although the rear break was a little loose (understandably so) everything else checked out. We were all given helmets‘, elbow pads, shin guards and a protective suites to save our skin in the case of an accident. I checked Christina's bike to make sure everything was legit before snapping one last picture and hitting the road behind Louis. As we hit the pavement, I had to restrain myself from letting my bike top out. In no less than 20 seconds, we were cruising down the road at 40 M.P.H., my right hand clinched firmly on my back break. Unfortunately, the poor fool in front of me mistakenly tapped his front break and he paid for it dearly by loosing nearly all of his front teeth and suffering a serious leg injury. This was a wake up call, we were not on a ride at Disneyland. </span><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif; font-size: small;">As granite mountains painted intermittently with hues of green and yellow, I tried hard to keep my focus on the road. I was smack-dab in the middle of one of the most beautiful landscapes I had ever seen, but I knew that sneaking a peak for too long had its consequences. After nearly an hour, with my body sufficiently numbed, we reached the entrance to the "Death Road". As we dropped in altitude, signs of life were abundant as the relatively bare peaks turned to lush green and suddenly, the environment around us had come to life. Once we entered The Death Road, the game changed completely and the stakes were much higher.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TSNTjZp-QiI/AAAAAAAAALY/mwlcBqyURB8/s1600/La+Paz+%252851%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" n4="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TSNTjZp-QiI/AAAAAAAAALY/mwlcBqyURB8/s640/La+Paz+%252851%2529.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">&nbsp;The Death Road</span></strong><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TSNTo6q_-7I/AAAAAAAAALc/2xf9JZI-clA/s1600/La+Paz+%252862%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" n4="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TSNTo6q_-7I/AAAAAAAAALc/2xf9JZI-clA/s640/La+Paz+%252862%2529.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><strong>A long way down...</strong></span></div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The road was steep, the gravel was completely un-uniform containing rocks of all shapes and sizes and having not served traffic in over four years, the condition of the road was poor. On one side of the road was a wall of green mountain, loose rock and exposed roots jetting straight towards the heavens. And, on the other side was an 1,800 foot shear drop off to the jungle below. Though everyone was aware how costly a mistake could be on this road, we were all too consumed with the beautiful landscape to let fear creep into our minds. Yes, flying down 56 miles of road through the mountains and jungle on a bike is indeed exhilarating. But, the truly amazing part of The Death Road was not The Death Road at all, but the landscape surrounding it.</span></div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif; font-size: small;">&nbsp;Every inch of earth was alive with vegetation. Wispy clouds formed at eye level and then disappeared into the sides of green mountains. Condors circled overhead endlessly and the color green had never been greener. We stopped often along our route not to revel in what we had just done, but to contemplate the sights before us.</span> </div><div align="left"></div></span>﻿</span> <div align="center"></div></td></tr></tbody></table><div align="center"></div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">﻿</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowFullScreen='true' webkitallowfullscreen='true' mozallowfullscreen='true' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dz_w3An_7489LgNHU5k07OM5CO_-nDEnIXofNe3sTttIFglTHBwUyN_SFO68HB83tk6jDDOcShqfBDRYBWSGw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' FRAMEBORDER='0' /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">﻿ </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TSNT_D6j7nI/AAAAAAAAALg/K15dZspCgfg/s1600/La+Paz+%252872%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" n4="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TSNT_D6j7nI/AAAAAAAAALg/K15dZspCgfg/s640/La+Paz+%252872%2529.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Look at what we have conquered!</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TSNUUDPVoYI/AAAAAAAAALk/eAyxOqq5wV8/s1600/PC080066.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" n4="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TSNUUDPVoYI/AAAAAAAAALk/eAyxOqq5wV8/s640/PC080066.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Yes, the entire road was like this...</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TSNUaPIp1OI/AAAAAAAAALo/Y18zdab0IkI/s1600/PC080079.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" n4="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TSNUaPIp1OI/AAAAAAAAALo/Y18zdab0IkI/s640/PC080079.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Beautiful.</span></strong><br /><span lang="EN"></span><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The entire journey took us around five hours with lunch and multiple stops in-between. Our journey ended in Corioco, a small town nestled in a holler between two mountains and removed from just about everything. We had gone from snow covered mountains to the deep jungle on bikes and all without out so much as a single turn of the peddle. The dramatic change in environments left my head spinning. Hours before, we were bundled up above the tree line fighting to breathe and stay warm. Now, we were sitting amongst banana and mango trees, covered in sweat and fending off army's of stinging and biting insects. After a lunch of soup (Bolivians love soup in spite of 95 degree weather) we loaded our bikes on top of the van and began the three hour up hill journey back to La Paz. Staring out the windows of the van as we made our way up an endless vertical road, the feeling of accomplishment was bittersweet. There are some experiences in life that are so unique, so memorable that you know they are truly once in a lifetime. This was indeed one of those experiences and that recognition made me both happy and sad at the same time. </span></div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Thanks for following along on this journey.</span></div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><strong>Clay</strong></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">﻿</div>Clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012036308662052455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3311062920813892531.post-90283259678993284522010-12-20T16:08:00.000-08:002010-12-21T13:22:07.854-08:00OFF THE GRID: 4 days and 600 miles across the Bolivian Desert.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_q3Di_zAI/AAAAAAAAAKo/IWWpmySgc4A/s1600/CIMG1285.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" n4="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_q3Di_zAI/AAAAAAAAAKo/IWWpmySgc4A/s640/CIMG1285.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: small;">Continue reading and you'll see what this picture is all about.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We started planning our trip to S. America last August and&nbsp;I began making bullet points on scratch paper, noting bucket list items and destinations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>There are all different types of travelers, but I have never been one to get my kicks visiting museums and monuments for hours on end; flipping through informational brochures while listening to detailed descriptions on a cassette player.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I, on the other hand, get my fix from being in the great outdoors and putting as much distance between myself and any human trace as possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Although I do have a deep respect for history and enjoy it quite much, I’ve never quite grasped how some nations spend fortunes protecting marble statues while they pillage and neglect the greatest treasures of all; you know, the ones that were not made by man?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Among the list of bucket list items I penned on Tribune letter head was the unspoiled landscape of Bolivia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I had been reading and hearing about Bolivia from people who had been there for ages and if I were to ever visit S. America, I refused to do so without passing through Bolivia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Bolivia, however, is not an easy place to travel, especially for Americans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Bolivia is a land of extremes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It is the poorest country in S. America with 60% of its population claiming indigenous heritage. It is one of the most isolated countries in the world; it has the highest city in the world (Potosi), the driest place in the world, the largest salt flat in the world and the nicest people in the world, etc. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>All of these things make it a dream for the adventure traveler, but the remoteness of the country and the poverty it suffers from makes it particularly difficult to get to and to get around in.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Before we had a single detail of our trip planned, we started researching Bolivia in anticipation of the troubles we were likely to encounter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Most notably; our United States Citizenship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Evo Morales, the current president of Bolivia, is not only the first indigenous president elected in Bolivia, he is also one of the largest coca farmers in the country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Coca is a harmless plant chewed by most residents to fight the effects of living and working long hours at extremely high altitude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It also happens to be the same plant from which cocaine is manufactured and, not surprisingly, 80% of the cocaine manufactured in Bolivia manages to find its way, in one form or another, into the bloodstream of countless Americans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It’s no shock that the U.S. Government, who has waged a Coca eradication campaign in S. America for decades, has come down particularly hard on Evo Morales.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And as such, it also comes as no shock that Americans are now the only citizens in the world that are required to obtain a visa to enter Bolivia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>When we planned our travel to Bolivia, the State Department had warnings for American citizens against travel in Bolivia, which was suffering from civil unrest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We said “fuck it” and we decided to go there anyway.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After a nine hour bus ride from Salta, Argentina to La Quiaca, we arrived at the border town and grabbed our backpacks before catching a taxi to the Argentine/Bolivia border.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Christina and I both had reservations about this part of our travel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It was no secret that Americans were often harassed at the border and our chance encounter days before with an American girl that broke down in the tears at the border did not ease our anxiety.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Our requirements for passing the border were as follows:</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 75%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 75%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>-One visa application filled out in print with address, name of employer, etc.</span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 75%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 75%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">-Copy of bank statements (to show solvency) or copy of all major credit cards</span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 75%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 75%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">-One passport picture</span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 75%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 75%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">-One letter of invitation from a Bolivian hotel or tour operator (in Spanish)</span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 75%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 75%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">-One W.H.O copy of vaccinations</span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 75%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 75%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">-$135 U.S.D (must be in mint condition and must be U.S)</span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">When we arrived in Villazon, Bolivia countless Europeans crossed the border without out so much as a second glance. Christina and I showed our passport to the border authority who quickly ushered us over to a separate window where a young man sat in an Adidas jumpsuit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We handed him our documents which we had unscrupulously labeled, which were thrown in a pile of other paper work without out so much as flipping through the papers; this man wanted our cash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Christina handed hers over (all large bills) and she was quickly awarded her visa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I, on the other hand, had spent most of my large bills and was forced to use the 50 American $1 bills I had brought along.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Over a course of fifteen minutes, the young man combed through my American cash, placing crisp bills and slightly dilapidated bills in separate piles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Every last American dollar I had was in this man’s hand, so Christina and I held our breath as we waited for the verdict.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The young man turned down $25 of my American cash for reasons I still do not entirely understand. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span>Although I had heard of this happening, I was still slightly befuddled because the exchange rate was 1:7 (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do some math, buddy, you’re on the winning end here</i>).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>After some negotiating, the gentleman agreed that I could pay him the extra money in Argentine Pesos, but not in their own currency, Bolivianos. I paid the extra cash and after another young man stamped my passport and exclaimed “Ahhh, Americano!” I was on my way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Christina and I hailed a Taxi to the train station where we would catch a three hour train to Tupiza.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We had gone from very little altitude to nearly 12,000 feet in a matter of hours and when we sat down at the train station, the altitude slapped us in the face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Having arrived nearly two hours early, we struck up a conversation with a young Italian man who was on his first week of backpacking around the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>As the time for our departure neared, we moved outside and continued the conversation as we waited for the train.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>As we stood against a wall and traded stories, a small group of dodgy looking young Bolivians traded glances with us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Not a moment later, the young Italian turned around and noticed his bag was gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>A group of locals began yelling at him, describing what the thieves were wearing, but it was too late; they were long gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Apparently, although a large group of Bolivian men and women witnessed the bag being stolen, the thieves’ reputations as thugs kept them quiet until they had left the scene.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We had not been in Bolivia more than two hours; this was a wake up call. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We said our apologies to the young Italian man before hopping on the train to Tupiza.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We had made our way from the southernmost city in the world to the isolated country of Bolivia (some 3,000 miles away) with one goal in mind: drive across the Bolivian desert and visit the largest salt flat in the world; the Salar De Uyuni. The train’s cabin car was not bad; it featured a small articulating fan and a TV that played amateur Bolivian music videos featuring the pan flute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>At times, however, the cabin car filled so completely with dust that people wrapped t-shirts around their face and covered their eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Three hours later, we stepped off that train and for the first time, I no longer felt like some yuppie from the city carrying a backpack, but a real backpacker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We were tired, covered in dust, completely unkempt and smelling god awful as we walked down the mud streets Tupiza with various odds and ends clipped to our back packs (hiking boots, stuffed animals, rain gear, nalgene bottles, sandals) swinging to and fro in complete synchronization. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>In two short months, I had gone from Clark Kent to Grizzly Adams; it was an odd, but strangely gratifying feeling.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We had booked our salt flat tour before coming to Tupiza as we needed a letter of invitation to enter the country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I had been researching tours to the Salar de Uyuni months before our departure and the stories I read both scared and excited me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The southern half of Bolivia is one of the most desolate isolated places on earth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And, outside of anthropological studies, the only reason anyone would ever find themselves in the&nbsp;remote desert of Southern Bolivia, is to partake in the Salt Flat tour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>However, this small boom in tourism has spawned countless hundreds of tour companies, all jockeying to grab as many tourist dollars as possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And, the disparity among the qualities of these tour companies is expansive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Before our trip and even during our travels, we had heard countless horror stories of people pairing up with the wrong tour operator during their Salt Flat tour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>In fact, even our Lonely Planet guide book (which is the bible amongst backpackers down here) admitted that picking a tour operator for the Salt Flat tour is tantamount to playing Russian roulette; there is no guarantee that your experience is going to be a good one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Stories of drivers getting drunk at 5.a.m., jeeps breaking down stranding people in the desert for days and passengers staging mutinies had both Christina and I on edge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But, while hiking in Torres Del Paine, we met a S. African couple who ensured us that going from Tupiza (considered the reverse route) was the safest option. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>And, although it cost nearly twice as much as most other tour operators (usual cost is $80 for 4 days and 3 nights), I was smart enough to know that this is not the type of trip where you want the best bargain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>So, at the advice of others, Christina and I booked our tour with Tupiza Tours and hoped for the best.</span></span></div>﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_k1fNDo6I/AAAAAAAAAJs/KE8jYI6Mqfg/s1600/DSC_0442web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_k1fNDo6I/AAAAAAAAAJs/KE8jYI6Mqfg/s1600/DSC_0442web.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: small;">Our ride!</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Calling it a “Salt Flat Tour” is kind of a misnomer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Like most things in life, this trip is about the journey, not the destination. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>Think of the Salt Flat as the dessert <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>following a twelve course meal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It may be the sweetest part, but the dinner is just as memorable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Getting to the Salt Flat is not an easy task, in fact, when you analyze the rather wide margin for error, a trip across the Bolivian desert to the Salt Flat seems rather stupid and at the very least, extremely risky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>To get to the Salar De Uyuni, one must first traverse 600 miles of Bolivian desert void of any roads in a jeep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The most important element in any tour is without question, the jeep within which you are riding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>There are varying degrees of jeep quality, but the jeep of choice for most all tour companies is the Toyota Land Cruiser.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Most all are outfitted with large off-road tires and huge steel roof racks to carry extra fuel, food and passenger cargo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Most people and guide books recommend checking out the quality of your ride before signing up for a tour, as people are often stranded in the desert for days awaiting rescue and transport when their jeeps break down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Given that I know jack shit about cars, I gave our jeep a pat on the hood (sounds good to me), checked to make sure the tires were not flat (looks good still) and crossed my fingers <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>after seeing that our jeep had over 200,000 miles on its odometer. </span></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The next morning we woke up early to pack the jeep and meet our future travel mates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>You have the option of traveling with four or five passengers, not including the cook and the driver.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The idea of sharing a jeep for ten hours a day with seven other people did not sound so enjoyable, so we opted to pay a little more money to travel with only four passengers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>While loading up the jeep, Christina and I met Valentine and Laetitia, two French girls who were traveling together for a few weeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>They spoke English, were our same age and immediately seemed warm and friendly; the next few days we would all grow very close. Our cook was Zaida, a shy twenty-year old who barely muttered a word our entire trip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And, our driver was Edgar, a twenty-eight year old who had been driving this particular tour for the last three years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>His age and experience came into question moments after our drive began and we found ourselves hugging a tiny, two lane dirt road, carved out of the side of a mountain and perched precariously over 1,000 feet above the canyon lands below. Our first day we would drive for nearly nine hours, but we had barely been in the car for a half an hour and everyone was already questioning what sort of adventure we had gotten ourselves into.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It did not take long before we were in the middle of nowhere, having left any trace of industrialized civilization long behind us.</span></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_lAkK8qbI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/IxTHoARR88Q/s1600/DSC_0414web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_lAkK8qbI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/IxTHoARR88Q/s1600/DSC_0414web.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: small;">The desert if fun.&nbsp; Yay!</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><br />﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_k3rgqGZI/AAAAAAAAAJw/B--t_d3nCh4/s1600/DSC_0387web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_k3rgqGZI/AAAAAAAAAJw/B--t_d3nCh4/s1600/DSC_0387web.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: small;">They're fun to watch and eat for lunch.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The next four days we would drive over 600 miles across the Bolivian desert and traverse nearly the entire southern portion of Bolivia. And it would be some of the most interesting days of our entire trip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The expression “off the grid” can barely begin to describe where we were and the places we traveled. The very word “desert” brings to mind isolation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We, however, were traveling in a desert 15,000 feet -18,000 feet above sea level in one of the most isolated countries in the entire world (likely for that very same reason).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The landscape in this desert is often described as Martian like.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And, without question, when traveling across it, you certainly feel like you are on another planet. We went four days without traveling on a single road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We passed countless volcanos, geysers spewing sulfuric mud and huge dried beds of borax.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Strangest of all were the countless lagoons we visited, lagoons that were red, grey, blue and white; at the top of the world, in one of the driest places on earth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But, what truly made these lagoons unique was not their isolation, their location, but the fact that they were composed largely of arsenic and magnesium and on top of it, home to countless thousands of pink flamingos.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>This was no drug induced hallucinogenic trip (although it seemed like at times), this was the real McCoy; hundreds of miles from any sort of industrialized civilization, in the middle of a dessert at +16,000 feet you can find a sprawling bright red chemical oasis home to home to flamingos too innumerable to count.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The smell of these lagoons will accost your nostrils and knock the breath right out of you, but the sight will leave a lasting impression.</span></span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_plBDcydI/AAAAAAAAAKU/jbhuiKgpxmA/s1600/DSC_0521web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_plBDcydI/AAAAAAAAAKU/jbhuiKgpxmA/s1600/DSC_0521web.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: small;">Pink Flamingos in a pool of Arsenic and Magnesium. Why not?</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_k7UlAXwI/AAAAAAAAAJ0/gTAjIMzECjc/s1600/DSC_0462web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_k7UlAXwI/AAAAAAAAAJ0/gTAjIMzECjc/s1600/DSC_0462web.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: small;">The valley beside where we slept our first night.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><br />﻿﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_lPCd3UCI/AAAAAAAAAJ8/lFOkfDagajo/s1600/CIMG1087.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" n4="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_lPCd3UCI/AAAAAAAAAJ8/lFOkfDagajo/s640/CIMG1087.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: small;">The village we slept in our first night.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿﻿ <span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The first night we arrived in a small village, where we would spend the night in a small mud hut hosted by a local family. Never in my life had I felt more isolated then on that first night. We had driven by a handful of pueblos on our way through the desert; groups of 10-12 dilapidated mud houses where llama herders or mine workers typically lived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I was fascinated that a collective of people could survive in such total isolation and in such harsh conditions without any of the conventions of a traditional society: no plumbing, no cars and no electronics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The pueblo we stayed in was home to around 100 people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Each house was about the size of a standard bedroom (usually no bigger than 12x12’) where entire families would live, sleep and eat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I simply could not wrap my head around it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>After we arrived, I took a brief walk up onto the hill that overlooked our pueblo and watched as the sun descended and turned the Monet clouds a beautiful shade of pink; it was beautiful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I took a deep breath and everything that I had done to get to this place flashed through my mind, like some cliché movie montage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>What a wonderful and vulnerable feeling it is to be so far from everything you know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And sometimes, as in this case; everything you don’t.</span></span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_mtygRkMI/AAAAAAAAAKA/Jy8WVJitQco/s1600/P1080377web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_mtygRkMI/AAAAAAAAAKA/Jy8WVJitQco/s1600/P1080377web.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: small;">The sun setting on our first night.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿﻿<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">That night for dinner, we ate Llama for the second time that day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It wasn’t as good as our lunch, but no one had high expectations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Before going to bed, we threw on our head lamps and ventured out into the valley to take a look at the stars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>There are moments in your life when you convince yourself that what you are seeing is something that will never be repeated; something truly once in a lifetime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And, there is often no greater feeling than proving yourself wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Both in New Zealand and Torres del Paine, I saw stars so innumerable, so plentiful, that I thought could not be repeated, not anywhere else in the world, not if my lifetime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Well, I was wrong and what a delight it was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>At night in the desert, the clouds disappear and the sweltering heat gives way to freezing temperatures leaving a remarkably clear sky-the clearest I’ve ever seen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We were hundreds of miles away from any city and it’s ambient light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The stars that night made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>You could see Jupiter clearly, the Milky Way peppered the black sky in a way I’ve never seen and shooting stars fired off as if on command.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We spent about a half an hour under the stars before the cold and creepy desert noises got the better of us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We headed back to our mud hut, threw on every layer available (a potato sack roof, no heater and sub zero weather makes for a shitty combination) and set our alarms for 4:00.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We would hit the road the next day before sunrise.</span></span> <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_nBpX-TXI/AAAAAAAAAKQ/FcZUz4ZfFjU/s1600/DSC_0610web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_nBpX-TXI/AAAAAAAAAKQ/FcZUz4ZfFjU/s1600/DSC_0610web.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: small;">"Is it just me, or is this road bumpy?</span></strong><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_mx2uZmUI/AAAAAAAAAKE/gyHLCVnpmg0/s1600/DSC_0498web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_mx2uZmUI/AAAAAAAAAKE/gyHLCVnpmg0/s1600/DSC_0498web.jpg" /></a></div><strong><span style="font-size: small;">Getting high.&nbsp; (That's 16,021.5 feet)</span></strong> <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_m3lzpkcI/AAAAAAAAAKI/6D3Pnhtdu8Q/s1600/P1040662.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" n4="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_m3lzpkcI/AAAAAAAAAKI/6D3Pnhtdu8Q/s400/P1040662.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><strong><span style="font-size: small;">Fun with altitude!!!!</span></strong><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_m6heDkEI/AAAAAAAAAKM/b5LqUPW9x6g/s1600/DSC_0588web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_m6heDkEI/AAAAAAAAAKM/b5LqUPW9x6g/s1600/DSC_0588web.jpg" /></a></div><strong><span style="font-size: small;">The stone tree.&nbsp; Yes kids, sand did that!</span></strong> </td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The following three days were long and exhausting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Riding in a jeep at 40 M.P.H. across the desert for 10 hours a day feels a bit like being on a roller coaster that never ends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>We were lucky to have the company of Valentine and Laetitia, who were always up for sing-alongs and good conversation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We picked each others brains constantly about each other’s cultures and often poked fun at the ridiculousness of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Had we been cooped with a forty something couple that didn’t speak English, I would have jumped out of the jeep at the nearest cliff, but, we were lucky; they were great!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Each day more or less began to bleed into the next.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The scenery was often awe inspiring, but sometimes featureless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>I won’t bore you with the boring parts because, well­-they’re fucking boring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But, below are some highlights and memorable moments (but, first two random pictures I couldn't fit anywhwere else)</span></span><br />﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_tD-f0bUI/AAAAAAAAALA/lX6Pnnn6ch4/s1600/DSC_0664web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_tD-f0bUI/AAAAAAAAALA/lX6Pnnn6ch4/s1600/DSC_0664web.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: small;">A volcano.&nbsp; We saw too many to count. I named this one Cledis.</span></strong><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_s9i-Q7wI/AAAAAAAAAK8/cul2N4J1ocI/s1600/DSC_0684web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_s9i-Q7wI/AAAAAAAAAK8/cul2N4J1ocI/s1600/DSC_0684web.jpg" /></a></div><strong><span style="font-size: small;">&nbsp;Our Christmas card.&nbsp; Also, the railroad of death.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">- <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>THE JEEP</u></b> Problems with the jeep and complete breakdowns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Our jeep had at least five problems during our trip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>They included two flat tires, replacement of an alternator, and some other major problem of which I’m still not certain, except for the fact it was certainly the worst of the bunch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Watching Edgar (our driver) fix a flat tire, in the middle of the desert, while wearing a sweater in 95 degree heat without out so much as forming a single bead of sweat on his forehead was impressive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>There was no spare, he had to remove the tube from the giant off road tire and patch it by hand with a lighter and god knows what else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>At another point,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>when our jeep broke down within sight of the mud village we were sleeping in, Edgar spent the following five hours (after having driven for nine hours that day) completely dissembling our jeep in the dark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I’m not sure what the problem was, but his tools were minimal and I shit you not, the repair involved multiple fabrications from soup cans in the mud village.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Edgar was a man of very few words, but he knew how to drive and repair his vehicle.</span></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 12pt 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">- <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>THE ALTITUDE</u></b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The altitude is certainly one of the most memorable parts of the trip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Regardless of whether or not you had properly acclimated (we did not), sleeping at 16,000 feet every night is enough to throw you for a loop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Everyone got sick at one point and popped Soroche (altitude sickness pills).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We reached our highest point at the geysers, where we would spend 30 minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The geysers were at 18,000 feet and I felt every foot of it. I had declined the altitude pills that day which turned out to be to a school boy error on my part.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>While walking around the geysers of boiling sulfuric mud, I hit a wall and my knees nearly buckled (the last thing you want to happen while walking around pools of 500 degree mud).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>My head was spinning, my stomach was churning and my mind was racing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Edgar, noticing the sudden loss of color in my face, offered me a handful of Coca leaves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I gladly accepted, knowing that people of the Andes have been chewing Coca hundreds of years to relieve the affects of altitude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Coca leaves take about 30 minutes to take effect, but eventually I was feeling normal again and thankful to be heading back to 16,200 feet, where we would spend the night again.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 12pt 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">-<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">OFF THE GRID, OR MAYBE NOT?</b> There’s one valuable thing I learned from this trip: no matter how far you travel, no matter hard you try to leave behind the trappings of conventional society; it will find you!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>This idea first came to mind while riding through the desert canyon lands and listening to Boy George and Twisted Sister.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>True, it was only the first day of our trip, but were already in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by Llamas and wild Vicunas and we were all playing sing along with Cindy Lauper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I could not help but to acknowledge this strange paradox.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>This moment was not so much disappointing as it was ironic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>However, there were a few moments during our trip that made me wonder whether or not there were places on this earth that truly remained pure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And by that, I mean places that had not been touched by Coca-Cola.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It’s a bizarre to be in the middle of the desert, in one of the most isolated countries on earth and to come across a mud village of 25 with a Coca Cola sign hanging precariously from their window.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>What a tragedy.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 12pt 0in 10pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 12pt 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The last night of our trip, as we neared the Salar de Uyuni, we stayed in a hostel, in the middle of the desert, made completely out of salt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The floors, the walls, the chairs, the ceilings and the beds were all made completely out of salt. The “Salt Hostel” had been our nicest accommodation in the past few days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And, after eight hours on the road and a very long dust storm, we were anxious to arrive to a place that served<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>extremely expensive beer, that had a roof not made out of potato sacks and a shower you could pay to use (although the shower did not end up working out as planned).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>When we arrived, we were still catching the tail end of the dust storm, so I helped Edgar unload (as usual) as the girls headed in for cover.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>While outside, I made friends with a little piggy who tried to bite the ankles of fellow travelers, but apparently warmed up to me (he must have smelled all of the pork in my blood).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>That next morning we woke up at 4:30 to head to the salt flats; the grand finale.</span></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_s7ybnB4I/AAAAAAAAAK4/dXagOXXIozE/s1600/P1050023web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_s7ybnB4I/AAAAAAAAAK4/dXagOXXIozE/s1600/P1050023web.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: small;">Me and my piggy!</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 12pt 0in 10pt;">﻿</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 12pt 0in 10pt;">﻿</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 12pt 0in 10pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_s6LU4F7I/AAAAAAAAAK0/z9oTBKYzvc4/s1600/CIMG1293.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" n4="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_s6LU4F7I/AAAAAAAAAK0/z9oTBKYzvc4/s640/CIMG1293.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: small;">More fun with trick photography.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 12pt 0in 10pt;">﻿﻿</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 12pt 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Salar de Uyuni is something that is impossible to describe in words, but the pictures below will hopefully paint a picture, so I will stop short of writing in detail. It is the largest salt flat in the world, spanning over 12,000 square kilometers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It is huge, it is flat, it is made entirely of salt and it sits at over 12,000 feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>In the middle of the Salar lies the Isla De Pescadores, a small island oasis populated by thousands of Cactuses (or is it Cacti?).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>After stopping at the Isla for a 5:30 breakfast, we hit the road to explore the rest of the Salt Flat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Driving across the Salt Flat is quite a trip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The horizon is so flat and so expansive, it’s impossible to grasp, causing your mind and your eyes to play a game back and forth; each one questioning the other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Because the Salar de Uyuni is the largest, flattest place on earth, it lends itself to perspective bending photography.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We tried our best, but others have done much better.</span></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_ruNsLNbI/AAAAAAAAAKs/zqP7_0CWOBI/s1600/DSC_0718web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_ruNsLNbI/AAAAAAAAAKs/zqP7_0CWOBI/s1600/DSC_0718web.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: small;">The Salar de Uyuni and the Isla de Pescadores.</span></strong><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_tH73bRmI/AAAAAAAAALE/zfh74RSjdj4/s1600/CIMG1273web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQ_tH73bRmI/AAAAAAAAALE/zfh74RSjdj4/s1600/CIMG1273web.jpg" /></a></div><strong>An island in the middle of a salt flat full of thousand of cacti?&nbsp; Why of course!</strong> </td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 12pt 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">When we finally finished our trip, everyone was exhausted, covered in dirt and smelling like a herd of Llamas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We rolled into the small desert town of Uyuni, where we would wait for an overnight bus to La Paz with Laetitia and Valentine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>What an amazing trip it had been, one of the most memorable and IMPRESSIVE of my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>In life, I love nothing more than the discovery of something new and the realization of how little I actually know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>What a beautiful feeling it is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Thanks for following this journey.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 12pt 0in 10pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 12pt 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Clay</span></span></div>Clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012036308662052455noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3311062920813892531.post-54346548570961193842010-12-13T18:35:00.000-08:002010-12-13T18:35:50.272-08:00Sayta Ranch and the Famous "Enrique"<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em><strong>Images not as clear as usual.&nbsp; I've started compressing the images for the web as WiFi is not so great in Bolivia and Peru. Use your imagination, it's still beautiful</strong></em></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em><strong>--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</strong></em></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">While hiking in Torres Del Paine, Christina and I met a Chris and Jane, a British couple who had spent three days at the Sayta Ranch, about an hour outside of Salta, Mendoza.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>They told elaborate stories of horseback riding in the mountains; massive midday assadas and a charming ranch removed from, well­-pretty much everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>They also began to paint a picture of Enrique, the owner of the ranch, the orchestrator of all things meat and the master of everything with four legs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I’ve always loved horses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I spent a lot of time as a child, hugging my dad’s leg as he cheered on the thoroughbreds at a racetrack in Kentucky,&nbsp;near our house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>My father has been involved in horseracing since the 1970’s, so much of our small talk at the dinner table revolved around horses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And, since as far as I can remember, I made it a personal life goal to own a small piece of land with a riding horse, lots of four-legged critters and a pond where I can fish and play fetch with my dogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>So, when I heard of Enrique’s ranch in all its glory, it sounded like a dream come true. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>And, from the moment I realized I would be visiting Argentina, I had conjured up images up riding horses in the mountains with gauchos.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>So, it was settled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Christina and I traded glances across a picnic table and without a spoken word; we both agreed that we would visit the Sayta Ranch.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Getting to Sayta Ranch would require an 18 hour bus ride from Mendoza, Argentina to Salta, where we would then be picked up at the bus terminal and transferred by car another hour to Sayta Ranch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We caught an overnight bus leaving Mendoza at 8:00p.m.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>After a bizarre game of bingo in Spanish, a few hours of dodgy sleep and five movies, we arrived at the Salta bus terminal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Outside of the bus terminal, a man held a sign that read “Clayton”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We hopped in his car and quickly made our way out of the city and into the rolling countryside peppered with adobe houses and perfectly spaced rows of tobacco.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>An hour later, Christina and I arrived at Sayta Ranch.</span></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQbR-V_i04I/AAAAAAAAAJE/qXemRVhYK54/s1600/DSC_0295web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQbR-V_i04I/AAAAAAAAAJE/qXemRVhYK54/s1600/DSC_0295web.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">All the pretty horses.</span></strong><br />﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQbSP3M5ELI/AAAAAAAAAJI/cNK2QxeIDhs/s1600/CIMG0945web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQbSP3M5ELI/AAAAAAAAAJI/cNK2QxeIDhs/s1600/CIMG0945web.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Tobacco.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As we hopped out of the car, we were nearly tackled by Mickai, a humongous Dogo Argentino with testicles the size of baseball. And, Fiona, a rambunctious yellow lab that immediately made me miss my own dog, Lola.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Before even getting our footing, we were greeted with an aggressive hug and kiss by Enrique: a burly, big bellied Argentinean with a grey beard and a large knife tucked squarely into the front of his rather large custom embroidered belt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Enrique is the type of character that appears only in movies and books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>He’s like a Latin American Earnest Hemingway, with bits of Juan Valdez and Indiana Jones mixed in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We set our backpacks on a bench and before we knew what hit us, Enrique had pulled us over to a long wooden table underneath an awning and began pouring full glasses of wine while he filled our plates with chorizo, blood sausage, beef ribs,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>tenderloin and sirloin; all perfectly charred over a wood burning fire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Christina and I had met more than a handful of people while traveling that had crossed paths with the famous “Enrique”, so we were well aware of the mid-day all you can drink and eat&nbsp;meat festivals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>However, we were not prepared for Enrique’s unique form of “meat hazing”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Enrique, admittedly, lives only off of bread, wine, and meat with an occasional hand rolled cigarette.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>He claims his diet has kept him healthy and as such, he has turned it&nbsp;into a quasi religion of which, he makes no qualms about recruiting people to the cult of “meat”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>In a matter of thirty minutes, Christina and I had been force fed a bottle and a half of wine and enough meat to feed a family of five.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>After begging for mercy, Enrique finally let us up from the table to see our modest accommodations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I felt slightly ill and really buzzed, but optimistic about the next few days.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQbSu2FEpLI/AAAAAAAAAJM/Yb7i_rpvoG4/s1600/DSC_0287web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQbSu2FEpLI/AAAAAAAAAJM/Yb7i_rpvoG4/s1600/DSC_0287web.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">&nbsp;Enrigue working the grill.</span></strong></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQbSxwZZo7I/AAAAAAAAAJQ/l-E92EUOzWs/s1600/CIMG0995web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQbSxwZZo7I/AAAAAAAAAJQ/l-E92EUOzWs/s1600/CIMG0995web.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">&nbsp;A lunch for five.</span></strong></div>﻿ <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQbS3OVPFcI/AAAAAAAAAJU/i4-Tj00Vcj0/s1600/DSC_0304web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQbS3OVPFcI/AAAAAAAAAJU/i4-Tj00Vcj0/s1600/DSC_0304web.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Our humble abode.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The next few days were some of the most relaxing days I can remember.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We were over an hour from any sort of industrialized civilization on a picturesque farm where dogs, chickens, ducks and all sorts of four-legged critters roamed freely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We were being hosted by a small, but gregarious Argentine family and not a single word of English was spoken during our three day stay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>What a unique experience it was,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span>each day consisted roughly of the following:</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">-Wake up and have coffee and bread outside of the horse barn</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">-Take a morning three hour horse ride through the endless fields of tobacco plants and into the foothills of surrounding green mountains</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">-Return by 1:30p.m. for our midday assada in which a small group of guests would be force fed as much wine and meat as they could possibly stomach before their refusal to eat more turned down right angry.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">-3:00 hop back on the horse, completely full, rather buzzed and noticeably sore to head back into the mountains for additional horseback riding.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">-Return by 7:00 for coffee and tea outside and relax as Enrique peppers everyone with questions about the ride.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">-8:00 Enrique would begin force feeding us red wine.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">-10:00 we would enjoy dinner in the kitchen of Enrique’s house, after which more wine and lots of storytelling would ensue</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">-12:00 hit the sack and continue to be woken up every hour by rooster’s cockle-doodle-doing!!!</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQbTdnmtv5I/AAAAAAAAAJY/s8FreBp9zC0/s1600/CIMG0999web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQbTdnmtv5I/AAAAAAAAAJY/s8FreBp9zC0/s1600/CIMG0999web.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">&nbsp;Just trotting along...</span></strong></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQbTiSR2-3I/AAAAAAAAAJc/4X0ZVYb5NP8/s1600/DSC_0337web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQbTiSR2-3I/AAAAAAAAAJc/4X0ZVYb5NP8/s1600/DSC_0337web.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">&nbsp;The Ranch.</span></strong></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQbTmLhD3gI/AAAAAAAAAJg/f58Z_pw1ar0/s1600/CIMG0986web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQbTmLhD3gI/AAAAAAAAAJg/f58Z_pw1ar0/s1600/CIMG0986web.jpg" /></a></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Me and my horse. My big ass surely made him tired.</span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><strong><u>Some Highlights:</u></strong></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">*Riding a horse at full gallop is an amazing and being able to do so at will in the Argentine mountains makes you feel a bit&nbsp;like John Wayne reincarnate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>However, my body was sourly unprepared for the beating it would take.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>When I woke up on my second day, I honestly thought I could not walk to the bathroom, let alone sit on the toilet. Subsequent horsehides were painful, but eventually worked out the soreness.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">*On our second night, after many, many glasses of wine and conversation, Enrique escorted us to a secret room where he kept a rather large and impressive collection of illegal guns and ammunition that his father had started when he was a child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>In this room were at least 100 different types of guns hanging on the walls and lining the floors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>He had lugers from WW II, civil war era pistols, the actual knife used in the Crocodile Dundee film and an endless assortment of other guns, many of which I’m sure were bought and smuggled illegally into Argentina.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>More impressive, however, were the grenade launchers, shoulder fired rockets, live mortars, grenades, Gatling guns, and the single live ground to air missle&nbsp;in the corner of the room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I was forbidden from taking any pictures, but hopefully you can get the idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>After an hour of explaining his favorite weapons in detail, we retired back to the kitchen where we drank more wine and continued exchanging stories as best as we could.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">On our last night, Mickai, the giant Dogo Argentino, ate one of Enrique’s enormous white ducks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It was kind of sad, but also pretty funny to see Enrique’s reaction at the paradox of having one of his beloved creatures&nbsp;eat another of his beloved creatures.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQbUgDO-DEI/AAAAAAAAAJk/jfQAIHuDowI/s1600/CIMG1000web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQbUgDO-DEI/AAAAAAAAAJk/jfQAIHuDowI/s1600/CIMG1000web.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>&nbsp;Just another ride...</strong></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQbUkTayFQI/AAAAAAAAAJo/kmzWFPGqIh4/s1600/CIMG1008web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TQbUkTayFQI/AAAAAAAAAJo/kmzWFPGqIh4/s1600/CIMG1008web.jpg" /></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>﻿Enrique with Christina and I on our last night.</strong></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">All told, our experience at Sayta ranch was beautiful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It was a perfect escape from 40 days of crazy travel and Enrique is truly the type of character you only meat once in your life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>If you are ever in Argentina, head way north to the Chicoana region, about an hour outside of Salta and stop by the Sayta Ranch to visit Enrique.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>This is a place I will definitely visit again before I die.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Thanks for following along on this crazy journey.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Clay</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">﻿</div>Clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012036308662052455noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3311062920813892531.post-47862151821685276432010-12-07T16:08:00.000-08:002010-12-07T16:08:39.711-08:00Mendoza, Argentina: Wine, Beef and Wine.﻿ <em><strong>Have hade a bit of trouble with this post, so please excuse me.&nbsp; Wi Fi in Bolivia is not the greatest.</strong></em><br /><strong><em>---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</em></strong><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Tuesday morning Christina and I woke up in Valparaiso, Chile and started our journey to Mendoza, Argentina.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We hopped on a semi-cama bus (these are buses with seats that recline, to some degree).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Our bus ride was supposed to be eight hours, but after spending over a month traveling in S. America, we knew better than to expect to arrive in time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I have no idea what held us up at the border, but as busloads of foreigners passed us en route to Argentina, we sat outside of the border for an additional hour as immigration officials boarded our bus and called individuals by name to exit the bus for additional questioning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Not long after finally hitting the pavement again, our bus was stopped by the Argentine military and they proceeded to board our bus and pepper a few individuals with questions. Eleven hours after we departed Valparaiso, we arrived safely in Mendoza, Argentina.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mendoza, Argentina is considered by many the wine capital of S. America.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>If you ask a Chilean, they will probably tell you differently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But, make no mistake, most viticulturist, wine snobs and sommeliers know that Mendoza is a force to be reckoned with and home to the world’s best Malbecs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>However, the Mendoza Christina and I arrived in was a far cry from the Mendoza we had pictured in our head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>If we would have done our homework, we would have known that Mendoza was 4<sup>th</sup> largest city in Argentina.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>I had pictured arriving to a small town set against the backdrop of the Andes with red dirt roads, children playing futbol in the street and street dogs standing guard at local bodegas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Instead, we had arrived at a bustling city with sirens, exhaust and Coca-Cola signs abound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Our first five minutes in Mendoza were not great, but every second there after left a lasting impression on us. Once we uncovered the Mendoza we had conjured up in our minds, we did not want to leave.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I left Valparaiso with the makings of a nasty head cold and it hit in full force upon our arrival in Mendoza.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I was pretty bummed, because I had just survived a nasty virus while in Patagonia and Santiago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Maybe it was the fact that soap is found sparingly in most bathrooms, or that I had been cooped up in countless tiny busses with sneezing, sniffling, coughing people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Or, that I had been forced to stuff the very toilet paper I had wiped my butt with in countless bins overflowing with other people’s ass rags (yes, you do not flush toilet paper in S. America.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It’s a matter of necessity, not culture).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Regardless, I was not feeling great and as we hit the pavement outside of the bus station and Christina flipped through our worn Lonely Planet book in search of our hostel, one thing became glaringly apparent: we were in a fucking desert.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It took a few blocks with a heavy rucksack to understand that head colds and hot, dry, arid desserts do not necessarily mix well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Sweaty and begging for water after only twenty minutes of walking, Christina and I decided to hail a Taxi and pay the five pesos for him to find our hostel for us (five pesos is about $1.25 U.S.).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Less than five minutes after hopping in our taxi, we arrived at Hostel Lao.</span></span><br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We had heard great things about Hostel Lao prior to our arrival and for good reason.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Owned by two former backpackers, Hostel Lao seems like a utopian paradise compared to most of the places we’d stayed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The backyard is full of sweet smelling flowers, multicolored hammocks, trinkets hanging from the trees and two playful dogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>There are fridges full of beer and wine and each time you walk through the door, the staff greets you as if you have arrived at your actual home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Christina and I grabbed a liter of Schneider upon arrival and sat in the backyard as we played fetch with Astor, a freakishly large German Shepherd with a head the size of a basketball.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It was a constant source of amusement in the hostel that Astor, who obsessed over fetch and could easily hold a human leg in his mouth, chose instead to play only with the tiniest, dandiest of leaves. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span>After finishing two liters of beer, Christina and I hailed a taxi to meet up with our friends Eric and Carla, who were finishing up their honeymoon in wine country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>At the suggestion of Carla, we found a posh dinner spot, ordered a round of steaks, some grilled provolone and a bottle of wine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Grilled provolone is something I’ve seen only in Argentina and I love it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The grill masters lop off a three inch thick piece of provolone from a giant log, smother it with garlic and spices and throw it over a wood burning grill. The result is a charred, oozing, delicious piece of cheesy heaven.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>We finished yet another meal without a single vegetable, before bidding Carla and Eric farewell and wishing them good luck on the rest of their journey.</span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP44RvGMWpI/AAAAAAAAAIA/IJksw6tsGvA/s1600/CIMG0776small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP44RvGMWpI/AAAAAAAAAIA/IJksw6tsGvA/s1600/CIMG0776small.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Mr. Hugo's- Time for wine.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;, &quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">On our first full day in Mendoza, Christina and I had decided to bike the local Mendoza wine route.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Though many of Mendoza’s best wineries remain far removed from the city in the countryside, there are a dozen or so in Maipu (an area of Mendoza about 40 minutes away) that can be accessed by bicycle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>There are a handful of companies that rent bikes, but by far the most famous is Mr. Hugo’s, whose company was recommended by countless travelers we’ve crossed paths with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>To get to Maipu, we had to first find some cold medicine, then buy a bus card, and then navigate our way forty minutes out of town, all with my broken Spanish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I will not lie; I get a bit nervous when trying to accurately navigate the bus system in Chicago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Hopping on a bus deep into the Argentine countryside with loads of uncertainty as to where our actual stop was had me wound a little tight. But, our lucky streak continued and we managed to find our way right to Mr. Hugo’s front door.</span>﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP44eb1jN3I/AAAAAAAAAIE/6EIzdDoPHdw/s1600/CIMG0778small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP44eb1jN3I/AAAAAAAAAIE/6EIzdDoPHdw/s1600/CIMG0778small.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">The wine museum.</span></strong><br /><div align="left">﻿</div><div align="left"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;, &quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Our fellow travelers did not embellish, after walking through the gates of Mr. Hugo’s before being greeted with a single “Hello” we were met with dixie cups brimming with wine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Mr. Hugo did not speak a word of English, but he understood that anyone crazy enough to ride 20+ kilometers in the desert heat in search of wine clearly appreciated a good buzz.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Christina and I paid the 30 pesos a piece for our bikes, grabbed our tiny maps (about $7.50 U.S.) and hit the pavement in search of the El Museo del Vino (the museum of wine). </span></div></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP44kUwNUBI/AAAAAAAAAII/tWsibTyYV_Y/s1600/CIMG0796small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP44kUwNUBI/AAAAAAAAAII/tWsibTyYV_Y/s1600/CIMG0796small.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Trapiche Winery</span></strong><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>As we peddled to our first destination, it became apparent rather quickly that our bikes, which looked completely legit, clearly were not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Never have I had to work so hard to peddle a bike on a flat piece of pavement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Less than two miles into our journey, my thighs were burning and I had broken a solid sweat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Christina’s bike was no different, we laughed as we strained to peddle our bikes in a straight line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>After touring the wine museum and heading to an olive oil manufacturer, we hit the road and began to work our way to some of the wineries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span></span></span></div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;, &quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Maipu did not disappoint, it was all that we had hoped for when Christina and I decided to visit Mendoza. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>Tall hedgerows of trees separated endless rows of grapevines and olive trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Forty year old cars kicked up dust as they crawled down red dirt roads. Children stood outside small adobe houses and waved as we passed and chickens, dogs and goats filled every other front yard. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>Our bike lane quickly dissipated and Christina and I found ourselves hugging a small three inch piece of gravel as semi trucks and busses flew by, kicking up dust and spewing exhaust into our face. Our whole adventure quickly became a bit less romantic and fairytale once we were forced to share the road with eighteen wheelers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But, we eventually found the Trapiche winery and all was forgotten for the moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Trapiche is a huge wine producer and unlike many of the mom and pop wineries that pepper the countryside in Maipu, has a very noticeable corporate edge to it. Still, we were delighted to hear the history of the 150 year old winery and taste some of their finest wines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Two hours after our arrival, we were back on our bikes in search of some more wineries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The cartoonish maps given to us at Mr. Hugo’s did not turn out to be accurate and I can’t say that I was necessarily surprised.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>They had on them about a dozen wineries indicated with wine barrels and only a handful of streets.</span></span></span></span></div></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP44nCQ8XjI/AAAAAAAAAIM/2UdO-hVC3c0/s1600/CIMG0817small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP44nCQ8XjI/AAAAAAAAAIM/2UdO-hVC3c0/s1600/CIMG0817small.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Hefty tastings at Tempus Alba Winery.</span></strong><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;, &quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">After biking for thirty minutes and not passing a single street indicated on the map, Christina and I wondered whether we had taken a wrong turn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>As we stopped on the side of the road to consult our shitty maps, a truck driver pulled over and pointed down the road, ensuring us that we were headed in the right direction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We arrived a short time later at the Tempus Alba winery and were both greeted with a friendly hug and a kiss from the owner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Not soon after, we made our way outside to a beautiful terrace that over looked intermittent fields with carefully spaced rows of grapevines and olive trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We ordered two tastings and the owner brought ought six glasses nearly half full. </span></div></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP44s92kjzI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/ONjXuC469Ds/s1600/CIMG0823small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP44s92kjzI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/ONjXuC469Ds/s1600/CIMG0823small.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Ahh, it was delicious.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP45wky7WNI/AAAAAAAAAIU/VZ6y2yn3-z4/s1600/CIMG0847small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP45wky7WNI/AAAAAAAAAIU/VZ6y2yn3-z4/s1600/CIMG0847small.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>Vina al Cerno Winery</strong></span><br /><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After savoring the wine and our vegetarian lunch (a rarity in Argentina), we hopped back on our bikes in search of Vino al Cerno, a small mom and pop winery down the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>We stepped into a rustic, worn building that probably looked no different a hundred years ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We had our choice from a rather wide variety of wines and Christina and I both chose differently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>As they poured the wine for our tasting, it was clear we would walk out of Vino al Cerno with not only a better knowledge of their varietals, but a really solid buzz.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Surprisingly, our favorite wine was a sparkling chardonnay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I am not usually a fan of white wines, especially Chardonnay, and Christina agrees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But, this wine was truly unique and spectacular, like no other wine we had ever tasted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We bought a single bottle and threw it in our basket as we began our long journey back towards Mr. Hugo’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span></span></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;, &quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">We arrived back to Mr. Hugo’s and were greeted by a swath of other bikers, enjoying the end of their day with unlimited amounts of Mr. Hugo’s special blend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Christina and I settled into a table and struck up a conversation with some Canadians, a Swedish woman and two British girls. The wine flowed freely and Mr. Hugo ensured that everyone’s cup remained full.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>Two hours later and rather drunk at this point, Mr. Hugo herded his group of tipsy bike riders onto the number #10 bus, making sure everyone made it on the correct bus back to the city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I knew the bus ride home would be interesting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Our bus was full of three dozen wine drunk gringos, all dawning ridiculous purple teeth and purple lips.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>A few locals boarded the bus and although they were clearly not amused, I could tell this was a sight they had become quite accustomed to</span></div></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP45xtsdFfI/AAAAAAAAAIY/3ZoTgn7FP2E/s1600/CIMG0854small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP45xtsdFfI/AAAAAAAAAIY/3ZoTgn7FP2E/s1600/CIMG0854small.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Ohh..&nbsp; One dozen empanadas down the hatch.</span></strong><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;, &quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">We stumbled into our hostel around 9 p.m. drunk, sun kissed and covered in dust from our day of biking. We were exhausted and starving, but we lacked the motivation to make ourselves presentable enough for a dinner in town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Our options for takeout were limited to empanadas and pizza. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>Our run-ins with Argentine pizza usually left us unsatisfied and slightly grossed out, so we headed to the empanada joint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>There must have been a run on empanadas, because they were out of nearly everything on their menu.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It was cheaper to order a dozen than to order a-la-carte, so we opted for a dozen carne empanadas, our usual go-to. Twenty minutes later, we were handed a folded brown paper package peppered with grease stains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We were so excited; we nearly skipped back to the hostel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>After scoring some hot sauce from the hostel fridge, we ran up stairs and, to both my amazement and disgust, finished all 12 empanadas as we sat Indian-style in the bed and watched Spanish dubbed TV.</span></div></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP453a_w41I/AAAAAAAAAIc/NTNSZefNluU/s1600/CIMG0869small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP453a_w41I/AAAAAAAAAIc/NTNSZefNluU/s1600/CIMG0869small.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>The hot spings!</strong></span><br /><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The next day was Thanksgiving, although it did not feel like November, nor one of my favorite holidays.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>When traveling for extended periods, it’s remarkably easy to lose track of time, especially when in a different hemisphere where the seasons and cultures are completely different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>In S. America, summer is just beginning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The tell-tale signs of autumn and the holidays are nowhere to be seen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I usually spend my Thanksgivings hunting with my father, followed by reunions with friends and one of the greatest meals my mom makes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>This year would be a bit different, but we were intent on making sure the day was special for both of us.</span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">About an hour outside of Mendoza, in the foothills of the Andes, lays a group of hot springs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Some one hundred years ago, someone decided to capitalize on the natural wonders and create a hotel and spa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Christina and I had heard about the hot springs from more than a handful of people, so we decided to treat ourselves to a day at the spa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We were picked up at 9:00 a.m and herded into a small van where not even the driver spoke a lick of English.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The ride out to the spa was beautiful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We passed through dessert, canyon lands and countless pueblos before arriving in the brown foothills of the Andes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>Christina and I were the only ones to exit the van and, after a very confusing exchange with the driver, I finally settled on what time and place we would be picked up and our day began.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The spa sits in a small canyon, nestled tightly against two Andean foothills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Everyone visiting the spa usually does the circuit: consisting of different hot springs, waterfalls, and natural saunas formed inside of caves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>Upon entering the hotel/spa, we were handed white robes and we spared no time signing up for half hour massages.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We made our way down to the canyons edge and, in series of hand gestures delivered by an old woman, were explained the progression of the hot springs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Essentially, you start cold and work your way up to the hottest springs, before cooling back down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Mid way through, it’s customary to rub mud from the springs all over your entire body, and then sit under the sun for a half an hour as the mud dries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The mud was somewhat of a comedic experience for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Rubbing handfuls of squishy mud all over my beer belly on purpose just made me laugh, I couldn’t help it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Once you hit the sun, and the mud begins to dry, you feel as if someone has shot your entire body up with Botox; it’s tough to crack a smile or even move.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>When you reach the point where you body has nearly turned to stone, you hit a series of very hot, and very powerful jets that clean you off and massage you at the same time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It was an interesting experience, but I came out of it with my skin feeling like a baby’s ass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Around 1 p.m., Christina and I headed to our massage.</span></span></div></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿﻿﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP45-a9ynwI/AAAAAAAAAIg/GaEDP27kV2U/s1600/CIMG0861+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP45-a9ynwI/AAAAAAAAAIg/GaEDP27kV2U/s1600/CIMG0861+small.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Beauty</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ ﻿ <br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP46HL1E31I/AAAAAAAAAIk/jgi6HArqbGM/s1600/CIMG0865small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP46HL1E31I/AAAAAAAAAIk/jgi6HArqbGM/s1600/CIMG0865small.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">And the beast!</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">﻿ </span></span></strong><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP47MQRdEfI/AAAAAAAAAIo/0NQxSMF1qJw/s1600/CIMG0862small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP47MQRdEfI/AAAAAAAAAIo/0NQxSMF1qJw/s1600/CIMG0862small.jpg" /></span></a><br /><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Getting baked; suprisingly fun!</span></strong><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP47eJ9bsOI/AAAAAAAAAIw/y391zPo2hIU/s1600/CIMG07762small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP7HNu0rJ8I/AAAAAAAAAJA/Owe7ZTuAa2o/s1600/CIMG0902small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP47UVRfN4I/AAAAAAAAAIs/oziBcNfCx1Q/s1600/CIMG0876small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP47UVRfN4I/AAAAAAAAAIs/oziBcNfCx1Q/s1600/CIMG0876small.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The site of the hotel and spa</span></strong><br /><br /><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve had only a handful of massages in my life and most of them have been memorable for all of the wrong reasons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>There was the old lady in Thailand who kept repeatedly grazing my family jewels even as I laughed, cringed, and repeatedly asked her not to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>There was the $1 massage in Cambodia, where I was led into a dark damp room, forced to lay down on a very, very dirty mattress, where a tiny Cambodian woman proceeded to beat the living crap out of me and I squealed in pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The massage I had at the Mendoza was less of a massage and more of tickle fight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And, the coup de grace was when the masseuse took an entire palm full of massage oil and proceeded to rub it into my scalp, much to my disgust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I knew the massage was finished when she proceeded to take tiny Chinese medicine balls emblazoned with yin-yangs and play me a little song, making sure she hit everybody part.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>...Another massage failure for me.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After the massage, Christina and I headed to the buffet, which we had heard many good things about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The buffet included more vegetables than I had seen in Argentina in the sixteen some-odd days that I had spent there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>There were mounds of grilled meat, most of which neither of us could discern nor did we know the Spanish name for it, so we just pointed and smiled as we piled our plates high with one spoonful of everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>After another round at the mud bath and a circuit in the hot springs, our day came to an end and we headed back to Mendoza in a 90 degree van.</span></span><br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There’s not a turkey to be found in S. America.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>In fact, I have not eaten a single piece of poultry in over a month, so I immediately retired any notion of trying to find any semblance of a Thanksgiving dinner and instead, opted for more steak. On the wall of our hostel, there was a whiteboard where the staff wrote down suggestions for various tours, things to do around town, and places to eat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>During the entire time of our stay, there was single bolded line item that did not change: “Don Mario’s- The Best Steak on Earth.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>Thanksgiving would not be complete without completely gorging ourselves, so without turkey or any other accoutrement, we would have to settle for steak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Christina and I both showered up, dawned the nicest clothes we brought with us and sat in the backyard of Hostel Lao where we enjoyed the sparkling chardonnay from Vina al Cerno we had bought the day prior.</span></span></div><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP47eJ9bsOI/AAAAAAAAAIw/y391zPo2hIU/s1600/CIMG07762small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP47eJ9bsOI/AAAAAAAAAIw/y391zPo2hIU/s1600/CIMG07762small.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We had traveled much of Argentina by this point and although we had dined on more than our fair share of steaks, we had yet to eat a steak that really blew us away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>For the most part, we had abstained from meat and red wine while in Chile in anticipation of the massive amounts of red wine and grilled meat we would consume when we arrived in Mendoza.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We arrived at Don Mario’s at 10:00 p.m. and much to our dissapointment, we were among only a small group of people at the restaurant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We opted to sit outside because it was a nice night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>As the waiter took our order, he ensured us that these indeed would be the best steaks we’d ever eaten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Christina ordered the lomo (filet) and I ordered the Bife de Chorizo (the most expensive steak on the menu).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>By the time our salad arrived, the entire restaurant was packed and a small line was starting to accumulate outside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Just as we polished off our salad, I saw our waiter bearing down on our table with two huge hunks of perfectly charred meat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>As he set my steak on the table, I could not believe the actual size; it must have been at least 28 o.z.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Both steaks sat in a small pool of their own juice, they were piping hot and their color a perfect mix of burgundy and burnt wood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I sliced off the first very thin piece of the char to reveal a perfectly cooked medium rare piece of meat beneath it: like opening up a present on Christmas day and receiving exactly what you had asked for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I popped it in my mouth and smiled ear to ear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I took one more bite to confirm my own internal dialogue before Christina and I both simlutanously exulted that it was, in fact, the best steak we had ever eaten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I did my best work, but after thirty minutes of widdling down the mammoth piece of meat, I gave up and Christina swooped in to finish what was left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>If you are ever in Mendoza, go to Don Mario’s for the best steak on earth.</span></span></div></span><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP46HL1E31I/AAAAAAAAAIk/jgi6HArqbGM/s1600/CIMG0865small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP47pL20MmI/AAAAAAAAAI0/VIVVjcO0lHI/s1600/CIMG0902small.jpg" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The best steak of my life!!!!!!!</span></strong></div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">﻿</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP471pwxUuI/AAAAAAAAAI4/aBZQf1Pk-ng/s1600/CIMG0935small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP471pwxUuI/AAAAAAAAAI4/aBZQf1Pk-ng/s1600/CIMG0935small.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><strong>Astor; waiting for a leaf.</strong></span><br /><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We slept in the next day in preparation for our upcoming travel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We were going to hop on an 18 hour bus to Salta, where we would spend the next three days relatively off the grid at Sayta Ranch riding horses and shaking off the city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But, before we could do so, we had to prepare for Bolivia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I had been researching and trying to plan our travel to Bolivia since August, but had been unable to nail down all of the details.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Not only is Bolivia the poorest and least developed country in S. America, it is also particularly difficult for Americans to travel there since the election of Evo Morales, a coca famer which the U.S. has come down rather harshly on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>As such, we are practically the only citizens in the world who need a visa to enter Bolivia. So, we spent our last day in Mendoza sitting at an internet café, printing all of the financial and travel documents necessary to enter Bolivia, as well as trying to find a place that was crazy enough to exchange some Argentine Pesos for Bolivianos.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>We accomplished as much as we could and hoped for the best, knowing that Mendoza would be the most developed place we would set foot in for the next three weeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>Here goes nothing! Thanks for following us along on this adventure.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Clay</span></span></b></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP49EEmLUVI/AAAAAAAAAI8/yOpcezOdpZ8/s1600/CIMG0905small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP49EEmLUVI/AAAAAAAAAI8/yOpcezOdpZ8/s1600/CIMG0905small.jpg" /></a></div><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Preparation for Bolivia.</span></strong><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">﻿ </div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><br />﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><br />&nbsp;</td></tr></tbody></table><div align="left">﻿</div></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿</td></tr></tbody></table><div align="left">﻿ </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿</td></tr></tbody></table><br />﻿</td></tr></tbody></table>﻿</td></tr></tbody></table>﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿&nbsp;﻿﻿﻿﻿ <br /><div align="left">﻿ ﻿﻿</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">﻿﻿</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">﻿</div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">&nbsp;</div>Clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012036308662052455noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3311062920813892531.post-50407790412212401202010-12-06T08:27:00.000-08:002010-12-06T08:27:11.561-08:00Valparaiso, Chile<em><strong>Finally, made it to a WiFi connection.&nbsp; Have spent the past two weeks in an extremely remote part of northern Argentina and most recently, crossing the Bolivian desert and salt flats.&nbsp; Arrived safely to La Paz this morning and looking forward to my first hot shower in a week.&nbsp; I've got lots to share, so&nbsp;keep checking back as I will be uploading this material over the next day.</strong></em><br /><br />--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After only four hours of patchy sleep, Christina and I woke up still slightly buzzed after our night out in Santiago with my old friend, Roberto and began packing our bags. Travel days put both Christina and I slightly on edge, it can be difficult navigating planes, trains and automobiles given the Chilean propensity for rapid fire Spanish. When a Chilean speaks Spanish, it's often hard to discern where the sentence begins and ends, and what the gibberish was in-between; some people call it getting "sprayed". Usually, by the time I figure out the first word out of their mouth, they are on their last and I am left fumbling to conjugate a sentence in response. My mediocre Spanish has fared well for us so far, but I often find myself a bit nervous when I know it will be our only saving grace. As we crawled out of bed, Christina and I both glanced at each other, squinting out of one eye, a tell-tale sign of a hangover; when you can't bear to look at the world and what is inevitably coming with both eyes open. To make it to Valparaiso, Chile, we would have to take the metro to the bus station, followed by a two hour bus ride, followed by a trolley ride, followed by an ascensor ride (more to come on the ascensor's). And, we would both have to endure the next five hours of travel with massive hangovers. We fell into our usual roles, Christina as navigator and I as captain, and surprisingly we made it to Valparaiso without a single hiccup. God must have smiled down upon us that day, because with only shoddy directions in hybrid English/Spanish, I had my doubts that we would make it to Valpo on time and in once piece.</span></span></div><br />﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TPzdfT6pUjI/AAAAAAAAAG0/E448kvGbm0E/s1600/DSC_0198.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" ox="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TPzdfT6pUjI/AAAAAAAAAG0/E448kvGbm0E/s640/DSC_0198.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>View from the hill near our hostel.</strong></span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TPzekgQxqbI/AAAAAAAAAG4/A-YDLTTNO2k/s1600/DSC_0218.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" ox="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TPzekgQxqbI/AAAAAAAAAG4/A-YDLTTNO2k/s640/DSC_0218.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>Just a small stop while walking.</strong></span><br /><br /><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We arrived at the bus station in Valparaiso and waddled down the streets with our overstuffed rucksacks to catch the nearby trolley. Like everything else in Valparaiso that we would eventually lay eyes on, the trolleys were old, really old. The one we hopped on must have been in service since the 1940's as we crawled down the streets of Valpo, every nut, bolt, window, door, and latch etc., sounded off in a symphony of squeaks, screeches and rattles. When we got to "Aduana", we hopped off and ventured across the street to catch the ascensor. Valparaiso is a port city that hugs the steep hills of a small nook along the Chilean coast. It serves as both a major naval hub and an artery for freight shipping. Stepping onto the street and taking my first good look at the city, I felt as if I had stepped onto the set of a movie. The houses nestled tightly against the hills of Valparaiso create a kaleidoscope of colors. The hills serve as the canvas and the houses paint it with a palette of bright blues, yellows, oranges, peaches and pastels. The city began in the 1500s but during the California gold rush, Valparaiso exploded with growth, serving as a brief stop for eastern Europeans, Asians and everyone else chasing their dreams of gold to America. As if overnight, Valparaiso became a booming port town. Immigrants and others capitalizing on the success of those passing through began swooping up land and building houses as quickly as they could construct them. There was no formal city planning until later in the 20th century (after a devastating earthquake). And as such, houses are stacked precariously in the hills like a set of brightly colored, odd shaped legos, connected through a maze of alleyways, passageways and stairwells, in effect bringing to life one of M.C. Escher’s famous illustrations. Because most of the buildings in Valparaiso were done before city planning was in place, the street system has little rhyme or reason, resulting in dead ends, turn abouts and looptie-loops galore. In 2004, the city was deemed a UNESCO world heritage site for their "Ascensors" and it has since found a page in most tourist guide books and a significant boom from all of the money. Valparaiso is a city perched firmly at a 45 degree angle. Only a very small portion lies on flat ground, so if you want to get anywhere, you have to head for the highlands. To do so, you grab an Ascensor. An Ascensor is no more than a small wooden passenger cabin set on rails that ascends at a snail’s pace to the top of most major neighborhoods in Valparaiso. For the cost of 200 pesos (about 40 cents), you can save your legs and your back for more important things and catch a rickety ascensor to the top of most barrios. During Chile’s earthquake in February 2010, many of the 100 year old ascencors met their maker. But, although many are currently in repair, there is still a dozen or so operating around the city. You will have no doubt that you are taking an antiquated and ancient form of transportation when you set foot in an ascensor. In fact, you may even question whether walking would have been a better decision.</span></span></span>﻿</div></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TPze_dS0W7I/AAAAAAAAAG8/bohsM03YMAo/s1600/CIMG0731.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" ox="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TPze_dS0W7I/AAAAAAAAAG8/bohsM03YMAo/s640/CIMG0731.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>Ascensor</strong></span><br /><br /><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Tired and slightly travel weary after a full day of travel and only a few hours of sleep, Christina decided to take a nap once we found our hostel and I ventured out to explore the new city. I sat atop Avenida de Artilleria and as a weathered man played the accordion in the background, I watched the loading dock below as the cranes worked methodically and stacked the multicolored containers on the cargo ships in a series of seamless calculated movements. After an hour of a slightly hypnotic state driven by the tick-tock movements of the crane and having watched the sun lower in the sky and change ever so slightly the color of the houses stacked on the hills, I headed to a slightly touristy cafe to grab a coffee in an attempt to awaken from my slumber. After a thick espresso, I ordered two empanadas with Shrimps (as they always say in S. America) and queso to go and high-tailed it back to the hostel.</span></span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sitting indian-style on the floor in our rather posh hostel, Christina and I threw back the empanadas in record time (at this point, we had likely consumed 30+ empanadas a piece during our travels).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Afterwards, we both readied ourselves to hit the showers, a ritual we had both become quite familiar with after a month on the road. The showers in S. America vary greatly in their degree of shittiness. To date, we have yet to encounter a shower both sound in its architecture and safe in its dispersement of water. I have thought seriously about returning to S. America after this trip and pursuing a career in “Shower Architecture”. I could build an empire and people would look at me as I had created both the wheel and fire in one fell swoop. Take one look at the showers we’ve frequented and you’ll quickly understand that there is nowhere to go but up. Our current shower at Hostel Portobello was tied for first place in the competition for shitty showers. Most bathrooms in S. America have a squeegee on a broom handle resting in the corner specifically for shower clean up, as doors are used sparingly and only a small lip prohibits water from spewing freely out of your tiny box and onto the surrounding floor. These showers are often not so bad, because at the very least, they allow enough room for a large man such as myself to wash his entire body without actually having to exit the shower to do so. But, if you happen to catch a shower that actually has doors, you must resign yourself to washing only your upper half and you better pray that you do not drop the soap, or it will remain there until you exit the shower and are able to bend down and pick it up. In the last month, Christina and I have only had the luxury of a few hot showers. And, on those occasions fear of third degree burns often kept us from actually enjoying the luxury of hot water.</span></span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After surviving our showers, Christina and I headed for the hills of the Cerro Alegre barrio in search of Poble Nuo, a restaurant our hostel owner had recommended. The Cerro Alegre and Concepcion barrios make up some of the most beautiful parts of Valparaiso. They are both lined with countless cafes and art shops. And, as you wind your way up and down the countless hills, you will no doubt find yourself questioning whether what you are seeing is actually real, or if you somehow fell asleep and in your dream, ended up in some multicolored Latin American snow globe, just waiting to be turned upside-down. Christina arrived at Poble Nuo at nearly 10:00 and, as usual, Christina and I had arrived a full hour before the dinner rush and were the only people in the restaurant. We drank a delicious bottle of Carmenere and threw back someone’s cruel attempt at tapas before calling it a night. The next morning, at the advice of some travel mates we met while trekking, we had scheduled a walking tour of Valparaiso with the famous “Bobby Turman”. And, we had plans to meet up with two of our best friends, Carla and Eric, who were in Valparaiso as part of their belated S. American honeymoon.</span></span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The next morning, we woke up early, had the usual S. American breakfast consisting of a small roll and jam before heading out to the Pata-Pata hostel to meet Bobby (our guide), Carla and Eric. There was a lot of hype leading up to our walking tour, as our former travel mates had given Bobby and his tour soaring reviews. I had convinced to Carla and Eric to come along, so I was hoping that the hype was true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Nearly 10 hours into our supposed walking tour, I had not a single doubt in my mind.</span></span></span></div></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TPzfuPj_PlI/AAAAAAAAAHA/LNuzWJdKsgc/s1600/DSC_0205.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" ox="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TPzfuPj_PlI/AAAAAAAAAHA/LNuzWJdKsgc/s640/DSC_0205.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Christina, Clay, Carla and Eric on the walking tour.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TPzjidr1q-I/AAAAAAAAAHI/fgY4mXJXlME/s1600/DSC_0260.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" ox="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TPzjidr1q-I/AAAAAAAAAHI/fgY4mXJXlME/s640/DSC_0260.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Typical Valpo.</span></strong>&nbsp; </td></tr></tbody></table><br />﻿﻿﻿﻿ ﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP0N2puFPVI/AAAAAAAAAH8/exjXWsKcggI/s1600/DSC_0225+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" ox="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP0N2puFPVI/AAAAAAAAAH8/exjXWsKcggI/s640/DSC_0225+small.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Ain't it pretty?</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TPzgVIuoD7I/AAAAAAAAAHE/xbdd25-dheQ/s1600/DSC_0229.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" ox="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TPzgVIuoD7I/AAAAAAAAAHE/xbdd25-dheQ/s640/DSC_0229.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>Valpo pre-city planning.</strong></span><br /><br /><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We met Bobby outside of Pata-Pata at 12:00 to begin our four hour walking tour. Bobby is about 5 foot 8 inches, built like an NFL fullback with looks resembling Hootie (from the Blowfish) except with dreads. Bobby hails from Baltimore and his story struck a very familiar chord with me. Bobby was a mortgage broker for eight years and made his first visit to Chile to help out a friend in need. And, after getting out from behind the desk and experiencing the Chilean way of life, he decided he had had enough. Like me, he realized that life can pass you by rather quickly and a life behind a desk and a computer is not the future he had every envisioned for himself. So, he came back to the States, sold all of his belongings and bought a one-way ticket to Chile. He spent two years in Santiago before heading to Valparaiso, where he has been conducting walking tours for the last two years. He has since found his niche and after meeting countless local artists in Santiago and Valpo, has begun a career as an art broker, bringing the modestly priced work of Chilean artists to those in the States willing to pay top dollar.</span></span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Bobby is the type of guy who could make friends with a stranger passing by. Few Americans visit Valparaiso, so Bobby was excited to take out a group of Gringo’s and talk shop about the States and all that he’s missed. Not five minutes into our tour, we had all hit it off and I knew we were in for a good day. As we climbed the endless hills of Valparaiso, Bobby would give our calves a break every few blocks as he stopped us to explain things of cultural and historical significance. He took us through the “Open Sky Museum” a collection of murals painted on buildings that a have been preserved and turned into a makeshift museum. As we stumbled down the sidewalk, we came across a man wearing a white coat that was no longer white, but instead, bared the remnants of a life behind the brush. The man in the painter’s coat was a friend of Bobby’s and as we walked by, he was working a series of small murals depicting the Valparaiso landscape, an image he had likely painted a million times over. After a brief introduction, Bobby led us around the corner to show us one of Mario’s pieces. Spanning nearly an entire city block, and multiple flights of stairs, Mario had covered every square inch of available space with colorful acrylic paint depicting the same area in which we were standing. My group of friends and I did a double take as we hopped up and down the stairs marveling at the detail within the detail. As unique as it is, a piece of art like this did not stand out in Valparaiso. In fact, it fits right in. Valparaiso is itself a giant canvas; one sprawling work of continual art. Each corner, each alleyway is covered in a series of unconnected works of art, murals done in every style and often decades apart; working together to form a giant mosaic from countless thousands of painted walls.</span></span></span><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TPz0ZpzAzZI/AAAAAAAAAHc/bgy0yIT8RhE/s1600/DSC_0266.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" ox="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TPz0ZpzAzZI/AAAAAAAAAHc/bgy0yIT8RhE/s640/DSC_0266.JPG" width="428" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>Building or canvas?&nbsp; Why not both?</strong></span><br /><br />﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TPz1-A_-oTI/AAAAAAAAAHg/0_wtxZwvcrc/s1600/DSC_0261.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" ox="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TPz1-A_-oTI/AAAAAAAAAHg/0_wtxZwvcrc/s640/DSC_0261.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">One of Valpo's many artists.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿<br /><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After a few hours of walking, everyone had worked up an appetite and Bobby promised to take us to a place that would not disappoint. Twenty minutes later, we arrived in a small alley tucked discreetly between two buildings. As we rounded the corner, we arrived to a small crowd standing outside the “J.M. Cruz Casino and Social.” Everyone had come to this small hole in the wall for one reason. In fact, as it turns out, there is only one reason to go the J.M Cruz Casino and Social, because they only serve a single dish: The Churillana. After nearly four hours of walking, Bobby had given much hype to the Churillana; touting it both as an authentic Chilean dish and a once in a lifetime dining experience. As we worked our way through the line and into the restaurant, it was clear that J.M. Cruz Casino and Social was not a place for outsiders. The restaurant was about the size of a small box car with nearly every inch of wall space plastered with pictures patrons had posted. As the waitress greeted Bobby, it was clear this was not his first rodeo. In fact, before arriving at the restaurant, Bobby had promised us that this Churillana was the last one he would consume in his lifetime. We sat down at our table, which had collected thousands of signatures from Churillana fans in its lifetime. J.M. Cruz Casino and Social has been open for 64 years and is the original home of the Churillana, the only thing in which it serves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>What is the Churillana? The Churillana is a heaping mound of French fries, served for either two or three people and smothered in grilled onions, gravy and topped with copious amounts of freshly grilled sirloin and scrambled eggs with aji hot sauce on the side. Bobby ordered a round of beers for our group and everyone’s eyes lit up in amazement as the steaming piles of unctuous goodness hit the table. Our conversation quickly fell silent and everyone nodded in approval as we threw back endless forks full of Churillana. It was no longer a wonder to anyone of us why this place had become and remained famous.</span></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP0MqDI8EAI/AAAAAAAAAH4/QRxkJ9Wati4/s1600/smaller.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" ox="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TP0MqDI8EAI/AAAAAAAAAH4/QRxkJ9Wati4/s640/smaller.jpg" width="640" /></a></span><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">The Churillana</span></strong><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span></span></span></span></div></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After another round of beers, we all hit the road in search of another bar, even though our tour with Bobby had long since passed its four hour time limit. But slightly buzzed and completely gorged on Churillana, we were all having a wonderful day and I think Bobby enjoyed the company of some fellow Americans. Next, with Bobby too, took us to one of his favorite bars: La Playa. Most Chileans don’t begin partying until much later in the night, so with the exception of a few locals watching soccer, we made up the majority of the crowd in La Playa. We sat around the table for the next two hours philosophizing about life and drinking liters of Escudo, the standard Chilean pilsner. Six Liters of Escudo later, we decided we should all head home and shower off our buzz before heading out for dinner. Having thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company throughout the day, we planned to meet up with Bobby later in the evening to a bit of bar hopping. A few hours later, sun kissed, tired and still kind of buzzed from the day’s activities, we reconvened outside of Carla and Eric’s hotel to enjoy some more beers and conversations at Bobby’s favorite bars. Two hours later, having finally gotten our appetite back after the Churillana wore off, we bid farewell to Bobby and decided to find some dinner. We headed out for dinner without a plan, which, as I’ve learned, can sometimes have bad results when you are in a foreign country and do not know your way around. We stumbled into a cafe that looked nice enough, but after reading the menu and deciding it was way overpriced, we decided to look elsewhere. As we walked out the door, the owner, who was clearly insulted by our abrupt about-face, ran out the door and pointed us in the direction of the nearest McDonalds. We were all insulted, but decided to divert our attention to some of the friendly street dogs as we searched for another restaurant. At nearly 11:00, we came upon a small cafe and art gallery, where we grabbed a bottle of wine and some cheese trays. Christina and I said our goodbyes to Eric and Carla, but we were hopeful we would run into them again in Mendoza, Argentina. On the way home, as had become our custom in many dodgy cities, Christina and I convinced as many street dogs as possible to follow us home. It’s strange how quickly street dogs will become protective of you if they sense you are kind and willing to feed them food. And, after hearing countless stories of robbery from Bobby that day, not to mention the one where he was mugged and his date stabbed after coming home from the bar a bit pickled and trying to fight off their attackers; Christina and I would take all the extra protection we could get while walking down the shady Bustamante Street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Having arrived back at our hostel, Christina ran inside and grabbed some stale breakfast rolls for the dogs and we hit the sack. We spent the next day sitting at a cafe overlooking the bay doing some trip planning and catching up with the real world. The next day we would have to catch an eight hour bus to Mendoza, Argentina. But, we were sad to leave Valparaiso. What a great town, what a great experience, what great people. Thanks for following this Journey.</span></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Clay</span></div></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿<br /><br /></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br /></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br /></div><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ ﻿Clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012036308662052455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3311062920813892531.post-33425262843289507362010-12-05T10:10:00.000-08:002010-12-05T10:10:44.561-08:00OFF THE GRID...I have been off the grid for a while now, which hopefully explains the lack of updates.&nbsp; I have got tons of material to upload on all of our travels for the past three weeks, but have not had WiFi in quite some time.&nbsp; I just spent 4 days in a jeep riding 600 miles across the the Bolivian desert without a single road or civilization in sight.&nbsp; I have not been below 13,000f.t. in nearly six days and at times during our trip in the desert, we were at altitudes of 18,000f.t.&nbsp; What an amazing trip, Bolivia is one of the highest and most isolated countries in the entire world.&nbsp; We just arrived to Uyuni , Bolivia smelling like hippies and covered in dust from head to toe.&nbsp; Tonight we will take an overnight bus to La Paz, the capital of Bolivia, where I will hopefully find a WiFi connection.&nbsp; I´ve got tons of amazing stories and pictures to tell, so stay tuned.<br /><br />Clay&nbsp;Clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012036308662052455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3311062920813892531.post-48975996745783104012010-11-22T19:01:00.000-08:002010-11-22T19:01:43.789-08:00Santiago, Chile<div align="left"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span lang=""><div align="left"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">After returning from Torres Del Paine, Christina and I spent the next two days recovering at our hostel, Erratic Rock in Puerto Natales. We celebrated the night of our return with copius amounts of pizza and beer and a night out with some of our fellow travel mates. On the morning of our departure, we woke up early and had a nice breafkast, before beginning the arduous, but very familiar task of repacking our rucksacks. I was folding my clothes and stuffing them into grocery bags for the twentieth time in not-so-long when a strange sensation came over me. There was a radiating pain in my lowerback, near my kidneys that sparked my curiosity. Not more than five minutes later, I was doubled over on a bench in the common area and and trying my hardest to stave off the chills. It was no use; something had popped my balloon and any gusto I had disappeared into the Patagonian air. Not thirty minutes before, I was wide awake and chipper, ready for our day of travel to Punta Arenas. But in what seemed like an instant, my body began to feel&nbsp; as if I had been in a car wreck and dunked into ice water. Up until this point, Christina and I had managed to stay relatively healthy during the last month of travel. But when the chills hit as hard and fast as they did, I knew my fate was sealed. I had to settle in for the ride and take what was coming. Timing could not have been worse, my mind was racing with thoughts of what fluid would come out what orifice and at what point during the four hour bus ride ahead of us. I spent the four hours waiting for our departure in the common area of the hostel, sitting next to the furnace, trying to stop myself from shaking beneath the three layers of clothing I was wearing. Nearing 3:00 p.m. and feeling like a crippled old lady, I managed to get my rucksack on and hobble down the street to the bus station. As soon as I hit the bus seat, my chills dissipated and my body began to warm up quickly, as if someone had lit me on fire. Having spent a sizeable portion of my childhood in the sick bay, I knew that follwing the "chills" the fever would not be far behind. I spent the next four hours staring out the bus window and at some point during the barren Chilean landscape, I broke the fever. We arrived in Punta Arenas and I felt much better, but the battle was not over. Not soon after settling in at our hostel my immune system decided to hit the repeat button and the "chills" hit once again. I had to have Christina lay on me to keep me warm. After I broke my second fever, I realized I had not eaten that day. My stomach felt like it was tied in knots and unaccepting of anything that would make its way down there. Christina went to the store and came back with some crackers and ramen for me to attempt to eat. As I choked down some crackers and chicken flavored ramen, Christina and I could not help but to acknowledge the cruel and hilarious irony of having to subsist on the very same food which I had been forced to eat nearly 3 x daily while hikng for the past week. The next morning, we would catch a flight to Santiago and it would take me another three days before I was feeling back to normal.</span></div><br /><span lang=""><div align="left"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">On our first full day in Santiago, we decided to explore the National Park across the street&nbsp;and the monkeys at the zoo that had kept us up all night. Something as simple as a visit to the local zoo can bring to light glaring differences in culture and standards. The zoo was poorly maintained, animal waste flushed from the innumerable small cages ran directly beneath your feet in a putrid brown stream (someone actually had the forsight to write "do not drink this water" in spanish near the streams). And, despite numerous zoo keepers and signs warning visitors not to feed the animals, people fed the animals peanuts, cotton candy and chips at nearly every turn. Although watching a tiny monkey crack open a handful of peanuts and eat them one-by-one was pretty amazing, Christina and I could not help but to feel bad for the animals. Later that afternoon, we took a train/escalator hybrid (known as the funicular) up to the top of&nbsp;Cerro San Cristobal&nbsp;where one can find great views of the city, as well as a chapel and some religious statues overlooking the city. Located between a few small mountain ranges, Santiago is usually blanketed in a dense cover of smog. From the top of the lookout, one can barely make out the detail of the city beneath it.</span></div></span><div align="left"></div><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOrsRM7mvvI/AAAAAAAAAF8/iyw-qZs9Ckc/s1600/CIMG0655.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" ox="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOrsRM7mvvI/AAAAAAAAAF8/iyw-qZs9Ckc/s640/CIMG0655.JPG" width="480" /></a></span>﻿</td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Our hood for the next few days.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOr142LDi3I/AAAAAAAAAGw/s-Y4YOXp-AY/s1600/DSC_0132.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" ox="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOr142LDi3I/AAAAAAAAAGw/s-Y4YOXp-AY/s640/DSC_0132.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">The "dont feed the animals" sign was lost on most people.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><br />﻿ <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOrskQgUDYI/AAAAAAAAAGA/tqO_-kxl_kU/s1600/DSC_0149.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" ox="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOrskQgUDYI/AAAAAAAAAGA/tqO_-kxl_kU/s640/DSC_0149.JPG" width="428" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">What a beaufitul view. I'm not talking about the city.</span></strong><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOrs3rwlbjI/AAAAAAAAAGE/uM9rB_fAyvw/s1600/DSC_0165.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" ox="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOrs3rwlbjI/AAAAAAAAAGE/uM9rB_fAyvw/s640/DSC_0165.JPG" width="428" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Windows like these were everywhere.&nbsp; There is something storytale about them, dont know why but they caprtured me.</span></strong><br /><br /><span lang=""><div align="left"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The rest of the afternoon, Christina and I walked around Bellavista aimlessly, admiring the beautiful houses, the well kept terraces and the way of life. Christina and I were really enjoying Santiago. It was cleaner, less chaotic and much safer than any large S. American city we'd visited so far. We grabbed two chairs at a sidewalk cafe for happy hour and for the first time in three days, I was ready for a beer and solid food, although I now question the methodology for picking my first post-sickness meal. Christina orderd a Pisco sour (Pisco is a rum and the official alcohol of Chile) and I ordered a beer. For our snack, we ordered a Pichanga. Our options were limited, but after surviving on crackers and chicken flavored soups for the past week, I'm not sure my system was ready for the onslought of grease, cholesterol and flavor that was to come. Pichanga, in one form or another, is popular around Santiago and it's surrounding cities. It's a heaping mound of french fries, covered with a spattering of various meats. Ours contained sirloin tips, pork sausage and pork leg and onions. It was delicious and we finished nearly every bite, though it would be about another 18 hours before my stomach was ready for another meal. We stumbled upon an impromptu tango performance on our way home, before deciding to hit the sack early and beat the monkeys and karaoke singers to the punch.</span></div></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />﻿ <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOrtGRAt8JI/AAAAAAAAAGI/cLwWLcVAJHU/s1600/DSC_0164.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" ox="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOrtGRAt8JI/AAAAAAAAAGI/cLwWLcVAJHU/s640/DSC_0164.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Typical of most Latin Americanbig cities.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ <br />﻿﻿ <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOrtTWxex3I/AAAAAAAAAGM/yIrK9LRVDe8/s1600/CIMG0678.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" ox="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOrtTWxex3I/AAAAAAAAAGM/yIrK9LRVDe8/s640/CIMG0678.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">The look on my face is one of both fear and excitement.&nbsp; Here comes the Pichanga!</span></strong><br /><br /><span lang=""><div align="left"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The next day, I was finally back to feeling like my normal self. Christina and I woke up early and decided to hit the markets. We first headed to Mercado Central, a sprawling seafood market designed by Andes Eiffel (yes, the dude who designed the Eiffel Tower). It took us a bit, but I think it was our noses that eventually led us to the market. Inside of the market lies the final resting place for countless thousands of fish and seafood oddities. Walk into Mercado Central and you're sure to be smacked in the face with the smell of a few thousand tons of seafood. After overcoming the initial stench, my eyes grew wide with excitement and curiosity at the sights that were before me. The market was packed end-to-end with fish mongers, each covered in shiny fish scales, each selling an amalgam of ocean dwelling critters, many of which I had never seen. From barnacles to barells of fish guts, to giant Congor eels, Christina and I tromped around the market, the 1/4 inch of seafood sludge splashing beneath our feet as we gaped at the carnage before us. The market is full of tiny restaurants and cafes frying up the catch of the day. So, we grabbed a seat and noshed on some ceviche and Octopus before heading outside to catch some fresh air and explore a bit more. By shear happenstance, we stumbled upon La Vega Market, a sprawling meat and fruit market.</span></div></span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿﻿ <br />﻿ <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOrvAEPkjbI/AAAAAAAAAGQ/VGpwd2Ns-8U/s1600/DSC_0179.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" ox="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOrvAEPkjbI/AAAAAAAAAGQ/VGpwd2Ns-8U/s640/DSC_0179.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Let the fishy madness begin!</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ <br />﻿ <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOrvPPhmb4I/AAAAAAAAAGU/XZCroDpDv_A/s1600/DSC_0188.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" ox="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOrvPPhmb4I/AAAAAAAAAGU/XZCroDpDv_A/s640/DSC_0188.JPG" width="428" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Christina ready to chow down at the fish market.</span></strong><br /><br /><span lang=""><div align="left"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I love meat... alot. In fact, I've turned meat into a hobby: curing and smoking my own bacon, making my own sausage and rillettes, etc. However, inspite of my love for meat and having been very intimate with animal parts of all shapes and sizes in the past, I was still not prepared for my virgin foray into the sprawling meat market in the Centro Barrio. Your neighborhood butcher shop in America does not share a single common thread with meat markets in S. America. You can call it a meat market, but it was more like a slaughterhouse or a scene from <i>"The Jungle</i>". Americans do a very good job of distancing your meat from the animal it came from and it's inevitable death. Here it was quite the opposite. The floor was covered in an opaque red fluid, likely some combination of blood and ambient meat juice. Pig parts of every shape, size and degree of quality hung from the cieling. Pig and cow heads were stacked in pyramids of carnage in some display cases. Tubs full of guts, coagulated blood and other unidentifiable offal sat unrefrigerated in many areas of the market. And, the fear of becoming a vegetarian began to creep quietly into my psyche. So, I grabbed Christina by the arm and high-tailed it out of the meat market and into the vegetable market before an unforgivable sin was committed: becoming a vegetarian.</span></div></span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ <br />﻿ <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOrv8SEpB-I/AAAAAAAAAGY/GKhILiKXwJk/s1600/CIMG0707.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" ox="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOrv8SEpB-I/AAAAAAAAAGY/GKhILiKXwJk/s640/CIMG0707.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">This is the cliff notes.&nbsp; The actual story is longer and more gruesome.</span></strong><br /><br /><span lang=""><div align="left"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The fruit market was no less impressive than the meat and fish market. On the outside vendors hawked everything from knock-off purses and antique locks to back scratchers and leather goods. On the inside, vendors sold a dizzying array of fruits and vegetables, stacked neatly in uniformed pyramids. Fifty-five gallon drums of pickled peppers and cured assorted olives lined nearly every aisleway and the smell of vinegar wafted through the humid air. Our day in the markets would've been an impressive adventue for anyone, but<i> </i>pulled especially on the heart strings of my inner foodie. Tired and smelling kind of ripe ourselves after intimate encounters with nearly every level of the food pyramid, Christina and I headed back to the hostel to ready ourselves for a night on the town with Roberto, a Santiago native and old friend of mine.</span></div></span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ <br />﻿ <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOrwPXfyACI/AAAAAAAAAGc/ltKok1sN6Dk/s1600/CIMG0708.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" ox="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOrwPXfyACI/AAAAAAAAAGc/ltKok1sN6Dk/s640/CIMG0708.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Mercado Vega</span></strong><br /><br />﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOrwoMqNeAI/AAAAAAAAAGg/53CepxHyVJ8/s1600/CIMG0711.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" ox="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOrwoMqNeAI/AAAAAAAAAGg/53CepxHyVJ8/s640/CIMG0711.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Fruits!&nbsp; Yes!!!!!</span></strong><br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿ <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOryUKpNfFI/AAAAAAAAAGk/EnjccRRk_tw/s1600/CIMG0716.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" ox="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOryUKpNfFI/AAAAAAAAAGk/EnjccRRk_tw/s640/CIMG0716.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Pickled and cured concoctions of every shape and size</span></strong><br />﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOrzeXPgYoI/AAAAAAAAAGs/ZBla-lqb7eM/s1600/CIMG0698.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" ox="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOrzeXPgYoI/AAAAAAAAAGs/ZBla-lqb7eM/s640/CIMG0698.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>Plaza De Armas.</strong></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><span lang=""><div align="left"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I cannot remember exactly the last time I saw Roberto, but it must have been close to five years ago. Roberto and I met through a mutual friend and he was quickly adopted into our group of close friends in Evansville, Indiana. After a family member fell ill, Roberto moved back to Santiago and has not been back stateside since. When I realized I would be traveling through Santiago, I looked him up and we planned a reunion. Roberto picked us up around 7:00 p.m. after having just gotten his drivers license back that very same day. We headed to Barrio Centro where we would start our night off at "The Clinic". "The Clinic" is a hangout for left leaning people and it makes no secret of it. The walls of the bar are peppered with politically fueled images, poems and epithets. But, inspite of it's reputation, most people come for the Pisco. Roberto ordered us all a round of expensive Pisco with a coke and we dove deep into conversation and catching up. After our first drink, the night would play out like a fast forward movie montage cliche, set to techno music and all. After a few more piscos and an amazing Spanish tortilla, Roberto decided to take us to his favorite local dive bar, a place full of character where classic rock is played all night long. We hopped in the car and ended up at Bar Renee. Roberto had warned us beforehand that no Gringo would ever walk into this place unaccompanied. We walked into the tiny front room with a single long worn wooden bar and not a single empty seat. A couple of heads turned to check us out. Unsure how to act or what to do I stared blindly at the soccer match on TV, though I could've cared less. After Roberto had grabbed some craft brew, he reassured us that there was a larger room in back. We walked into a dimly lit back room where Led Zeppelin was being blasted from the speakers and the air was so thick with smoke you could touch it. The atmosphere was appropriate and the place buzzed with energy. It was the kind of place I would hang out if I lived in Santiago. To some strange degree, it reminded me of home and felt familiar. We nestled into a tiny corner and I had my first microbrew in a month and the first of many that night. After downing two liters of the tasty brew, our new neighbor sparked up a conversation. Though moments before they were belting Janis Joplin at the top of their lungs, they did not speak any english. Before I could grasp what was happening, this 300 lb man had taken out of his wallet and fanned infront of me a fat wad of pesos before licking the nasty money. He then proceeded to spray me with the only english word he appeared to know: "fuck". For a brief moment, I recoiled, thinking I had upset this giant drunken&nbsp;man and he wanted a piece of my comparatively pretty face. After looping Roberto into to the string of events, I came to find out the guy was just inquisitive and wanted to buy us a drink. As he swigged from a tall glass brimming with campari, the large man threw his arm around me, peppered my face with his saliva like a Jackson Pollack painting and ordered us a liter of the delicious beer we had been drinking. After another five minutes of a conversation that was completely inaudible and involved mostly hand gestures, the man grabbed the beer he bought us, of which we had drank none of and disappeared. We left the bar and ended up at an apartment complex near 1:00 a.m.</span></div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif; font-size: small;">To pick up Roberto's younger sister, we made a quick stop by a random apartment complex somewhere in Santiago. We ended up drinking in a tiny apartment with an Aussie, a Chilean and a spattering of other people with whom I don't remember. But, I do remember that it was slightly akward, as can happen when packed into a&nbsp;sardine tin with strangers who don't speak your language. We left the apartment near 2:00 a.m. to head to Barcelona, a local discotheque. Anyone who knows me knows my appreciation for a good neighborhood bar and my complete disdain for nightclubs. I knew I was in for an interesting experience, especially in my pickled state. As far as I can remember, the rest of the night went something like this: We paid a pricey cover at the door and hit the drink line, which involved standing in a long line to by a ticket and another requisite line to redeem your ticket for a drink. Christina and I both got another Pisco and coke and&nbsp;we hit the dance floor full of unduluating bodies. We bounced around to electronic music for the next two hours and were burned by other peoples cigarettes countless times as the place reached capacity. Out of nowhere, the nightclub had exploded with people and our dance moves turned defensive as our ground was overrun. Sensing that everyone was growing agitated and unhappy, we left "Club Barcelona" in a hurry at 4:00 a.m. with Roberto intent on finding us some late night eats, but not before Roberto lost a fog light on the way home (another long story). We ended up around the corner from our Hostel at 5:00 a.m. and found a place to eat some "ASS". If this sounds bizzarre, it's because it is. "ASS" is the food of choice after late night drunken revelery and it's ingredients are equally as wierd as the name. "ASS"consists of the following: one large hot dog, one toasted bun covered in tomato salsa, onions, avacado, countless tablespoons of mayonaise and seared sirloin tips. After a night of too many drinks, one "ASS" will bring you back to reality. We had had it's distant cousin, the<i> Italiano Completo</i>, but this was our first experience eating "ASS". After wiping our faces clean, we said goodbye to Roberto and went to bed one last time to the sound of Bon Jovi and screaching Monkeys. The next day, we would have to catch a bus to Valparaiso, Chile.&nbsp; Thanks for following this crazy adventure.</span></div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"><strong>Clay</strong></span></div></span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿ <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOryeZDo6BI/AAAAAAAAAGo/TfWB9Odie0w/s1600/CIMG0717.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" ox="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOryeZDo6BI/AAAAAAAAAGo/TfWB9Odie0w/s640/CIMG0717.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Italiano Completo.&nbsp; The "ASS" is the wicked step-sister.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿ <br />﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿ <div align="left">﻿</div>Clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012036308662052455noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3311062920813892531.post-20958199519705880532010-11-16T07:25:00.000-08:002010-11-16T07:25:49.334-08:00PATAGONIA: Tierra Del Fuego, Torres Del Paine & The "W"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">On our last day hiking the "W" in Torres Del Paine National Park, Christina and I woke up and began hiking at 3:30 a.m. with our headlamps&nbsp;to make it to the lookout before the sun came up.&nbsp; We sat atop a boulder, perched percariously upon&nbsp;the sea of endless odd shaped, volkswagon sized rocks&nbsp;which we had just scrambled up.&nbsp; As the sun rose behind us, the Torres Del Paine was set on fire.&nbsp; As I watched the sun creep down the granite towers, all thoughts of exhaustion and the bitter cold dissappeared.&nbsp;&nbsp;But, I&nbsp;could not help but to think of the journey that brought us to the end of the world, to the center of a national park, to the top of a mountain, to watch the show before us.&nbsp; What a trip it had been.</span></div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Getting to Torres Del Paine was no easy task, Patagoina is off the grid, man.&nbsp; From Buenos Aires, we caught a five hour&nbsp;flight to Ushuaia, Argentina.&nbsp; After two days in Ushuaia, we caught a 13 hour bus to Punta Arenas.&nbsp; The&nbsp;quality&nbsp;of&nbsp;buses and subsequent rides vary greatly in S. America. If you sign up for anything over four hours, you better pray your bus was built after 1970, your driver is&nbsp;clinically sane, drug free, and drinks alcohol only sparingly while driving.&nbsp; During our bus ride, we were locked in the passenger cabin&nbsp;(there was a door seperating us from the exit and the driver) and all windows were sealed shut.&nbsp; After two hours of patchy sleep, the bus came to a stop.&nbsp; The driver swung open the door yelling "Cambio! Cambio! Cambio!".&nbsp; Though we did not know it was in the flight plan, we were all hurded off the bus and onto a similiar, slightly shittier bus.&nbsp; Thirteen hours later, after two haphazard border crossings and having survived only on potato chips and peanuts for half a day, we arrived in Punta Arenas, Chile.&nbsp;&nbsp;Having come from&nbsp;the charming sleepy town of Ushuaia, Punta Arenas seemed like a see nothing, do nothing kind of town.&nbsp; Christina and I headed to the&nbsp;grocery,&nbsp;grabbed a roasted chicken and some frozen vegetables and headed to the hostel to enjoy some proper food.&nbsp; Having subsided on a meat only diet while in Argentina for the past 10 days, our bodies were craving some nutrients and fiber.&nbsp; We attacked our avocado and tomato salad like pack of starving&nbsp;vegans unleashed at a Whole Foods.&nbsp; We woke up the next morning and after a a four hour bus ride, arrived in the small town of&nbsp;Puerto Natales.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOF-57ej2hI/AAAAAAAAAFE/bJA-IAbHDNo/s1600/CIMG0316.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" px="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOF-57ej2hI/AAAAAAAAAFE/bJA-IAbHDNo/s640/CIMG0316.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>It looked nasty, it tasted great!</strong></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">We immediately felt at home in Puerto Natales.&nbsp;&nbsp;Nestled in&nbsp;a fjord surrounded by the mountains, Puerto Natales is the kind of place you dont want to leave.&nbsp; The&nbsp;streets are packed with throngs of Gore-Tex clad hikers looking to get their fix.&nbsp; Everyone here is an addict and the drug is the same:&nbsp;The Torres Del Paine National&nbsp;Park.&nbsp; At the advice of a friend, we booked a night at Erratic Rock Hostel.&nbsp; Erratic Rock is run by Bill, an&nbsp;Oregonian socialist&nbsp;turned ex pat who built the Hostel with a group of friends.&nbsp; They now run several successful hostels, guide companies, etc.&nbsp; They make homemade bread every morning, they've started the first recycling program in Patagonia and they make you feel like you belong.&nbsp; It's no shock that Christina and I feel right at home with a bunch of&nbsp;liberal, ex hippie, environmentalist nature loving freaks.&nbsp; We came to Puerto Natales with no plans, but one lofty goal in mind: hike the famous "W" trail in Torres Del Paine. Luckily, Bill had just started a business next door called "Base Camp" that specializes in renting gear to hikers and holds daily information&nbsp;talks for everyone ambitious enough to take on the "W".&nbsp; Five hours after arriving in Puerto Natales, Christina and I had rented all of the necessary gear, stocked up on ramen noodles and breakfast bars and were packing our backpacks for four nights and five days in The&nbsp;Torres Del Paine Park.&nbsp; Christina and I both slept sparingly that night, both excited and nervous for the adventure ahead.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">We woke up the next morning and ate a hearty breakfast before hopping on a bus to Torres Del Paine.&nbsp; While on the bus, we met some great people with whom we would spend the next few days trekking together, on and off.&nbsp; There was Scott, a&nbsp;burley, but light hearted Aussie from Brisbane with hands that looked like they could crush stone.&nbsp; He&nbsp;was traveling for six months&nbsp;with his fiance, Leanne, a soft spoken sweet heart from&nbsp;Scotland.&nbsp;&nbsp;There was Dave, the&nbsp;23 year old Canuck with a loveable, slightly bizzare personality&nbsp;who looked like Fidel Castro and carried himself like a spider-monkey with ADHD.&nbsp; Dave had been traveling the world for the past 11 months alone, which&nbsp;takes a very unique person. Dave indeed is unique.&nbsp; Lastly, there was Sia and Tom, both Aussies,&nbsp;one with an MD and one&nbsp;with a&nbsp;PHD, both of whom had been traveling for the last&nbsp;nine months.&nbsp; Sia and&nbsp;Tom were both extremely warm hearted, they struck up a conversation when we sat down and the entire group became acquanited rather&nbsp;quickly.&nbsp; It amazes me how quickly you can become friends with fellow travelers, but how long it takes to develop a relationship in the real world.&nbsp; But, I guess travelers have a lot in commom: although reigning from all differnt walks of life, from all over the world, they are usually in the same place, at the same time, for the same reason.&nbsp; It doesnt take much to see how strong bonds can form so quickly.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Three and a half hours into our two hour bus ride, we arrived at our destination.&nbsp; To get to the trail head, we had to take a catamaran across Lake Pehoe, a lake composed of glacial melt and so strikingly blue, it simply did not appear to be real. After an hour of staring at the lake in disbelief, we disembarked and we were on our way.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Nearly a&nbsp;year ago, I bought a Men's Journal in an airport while waiting for a flight back to Chicago.&nbsp; While flipping through the magazine, I came across a section titled "The Ultimate Bucket List". This section gave first-person accounts from writers who set out to mark off long standing items&nbsp;on their bucket lists.&nbsp; Among the list of items were kayaking the Sea of Cortez, multiple day adventure racing in New Zealand and hiking the "W" in&nbsp;Torres Del Paine National Park, Patagonia. The outdoor lover that I am, this last item was caught in&nbsp;my mind.&nbsp;&nbsp;It contanied a detailed itinerary, a workout regimen and a list of necessary gear.&nbsp; I read the article twice, earmarked the page upon landing and threw it underneath my coffee table when I got home,&nbsp;where it collected dust along with a stack of old food magazines I could not bear to throw away.&nbsp; I shared this with no one but Christina.&nbsp; Like those who read luxury boating magazines and dreamt of what could one day be, I planted a seed in my conscience that I would one day hike the "W".&nbsp; Not in my wildest dreams did I imagine that nine short&nbsp;months later, I would step off a boat and onto the "W".&nbsp; It took lots of planning and traveling nearly to the end of the world, but I made it happen. Fucking A!</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOGuA-FUFTI/AAAAAAAAAFI/nN8kIIRtkVM/s1600/CIMG0339.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" px="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOGuA-FUFTI/AAAAAAAAAFI/nN8kIIRtkVM/s640/CIMG0339.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>Moments after entering the park.</strong></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOGuc2tTwMI/AAAAAAAAAFM/PB1uJ7_Q3_8/s1600/CIMG0355.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" px="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOGuc2tTwMI/AAAAAAAAAFM/PB1uJ7_Q3_8/s640/CIMG0355.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>On the Catamaran heading to the trail head.</strong></span><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOGuxXkEpZI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/g3WyDGHqmmk/s1600/CIMG0379.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" px="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOGuxXkEpZI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/g3WyDGHqmmk/s640/CIMG0379.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Glacier Grey.&nbsp; We slept right on the side of this giant ice cube.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOGvG-aYUEI/AAAAAAAAAFU/cXz1YnzRMSY/s1600/CIMG0380.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" px="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOGvG-aYUEI/AAAAAAAAAFU/cXz1YnzRMSY/s640/CIMG0380.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>Quick stop for a photo opon day one.</strong></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOGvhKdUAQI/AAAAAAAAAFY/o-EvoB2YWj0/s1600/CIMG0390.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" px="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOGvhKdUAQI/AAAAAAAAAFY/o-EvoB2YWj0/s640/CIMG0390.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>Action shot.</strong></span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">The next day we got a real taste of what we were in for.&nbsp; To hike "W" in its entirety there is a lot of backtracking involved.&nbsp; Our first full day, we woke up and hit the trail at 8:00 a.m.&nbsp; Four hours later, we arrived at the spot where we had been dropped off the day prior.&nbsp; We grabbed a seat and a lunch of tuna and crackers.&nbsp; After only four hours, we were a bit tired.&nbsp; But, having only looked at the map sparingly, we did not realize that we had to hike 24 kilometers that day (15 miles).&nbsp; We cleaned up our mess kit and set off for the rest of the day, completely unaware of the pain ahead.&nbsp; This was the first point where I realized that the gear I had was completely insufficient.&nbsp; My shoes, which were much lighter than hiking boots, had significantly&nbsp;thinner soles.&nbsp; If you stepped on a softball sized rock,&nbsp;the sole of my shoe&nbsp;would bend and flex instead of remaining rigid as it should have.&nbsp; After walking on softball sized rocks for over ten hours up and down steep inclines, my feet felt as if they had been beaten endlessly by a broom handle.&nbsp; Nearly an hour from our camp site and after nine&nbsp;hours of hiking, Christina and I traded glances, both of us questioning what the hell we had gotten ourselved into.&nbsp; We left our first campsite at 8:00 a.m. and arrived at our 2nd campsite at 6:00p.m. dog tired.&nbsp; We made a quick dinner of pasta and powdered soup and called it a night.&nbsp; The following day was supposed to be our longest yet, Christina and I both went to bed a bit concerned about the day ahead of us.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div>﻿﻿ <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOHsw4AvuxI/AAAAAAAAAFg/mnMN88oMpPU/s1600/CIMG0434.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" px="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOHsw4AvuxI/AAAAAAAAAFg/mnMN88oMpPU/s640/CIMG0434.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">On our way up the FrenchValley.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿﻿ <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">We woke up the next morning and hit the trail as the sun turned the peaks golden&nbsp;at 5:30 a.m. We had ahead of us our toughest day yet and we knew it.&nbsp; We had to hike the French Valley on our 3rd day and we had heard&nbsp;rumors about it&nbsp;and the pain it inflicted from everyone who crossed&nbsp;it's path. The French Valley is, unsurprisingly, a&nbsp;valley that runs between two mountains.&nbsp; It is the toughest portion of the&nbsp;"W" and makes up the middle line in the "W".&nbsp; Many people only journey half way up to enjoy the views.&nbsp; But, Christina was determined to journey not just to the top at Camp Brittanico, but half an hour past that point up a nearly vertical boulder strewn trail to the look out&nbsp;point.&nbsp;&nbsp;Reaching the top of the French&nbsp;Valley takes a bit of intestinal fortitude.&nbsp; It's a three hour ascent to the top over an endless field of odd shaped boulders, ranging in size from small cars to beach balls with avalanches sounding off in the background every few minutes.&nbsp; Luckily, we had left our backpacks at our camp and packed only our day pack with the bare essentials.&nbsp; But, when we set out that morning, having barely checked the map, we did not realize we had signed up&nbsp;to hike 26 kilometers (16.2 miles) straight up and straight down.&nbsp; Whomever made up the phrase "it's all downhill from here" didn't know shit about hiking.&nbsp; After walking down a steep vertical decline riddled with boulders&nbsp;for nearly three hours, your knees will feel like you pulled a career in the major leagues behind the plate.&nbsp; When I finally saw flat land on&nbsp;our third day, I felt as&nbsp;if I was Columbus and I had discovered the America's; what a glorious site it was.&nbsp; Eleven hours after we had set out,&nbsp;we stumbled back to our&nbsp;camp tired and nearly sick with exhaustion. Actually we were amongst a small group of people who collapsed on the beach twenty minutes away from the campsite, unsure as to whether or not we could tackle the last few kilometers.&nbsp; Tired, covered in dirt and smelling like we had pulled back-to-back stints at Bonaroo, Christina and I arrived in camp and collapsed in a heap.&nbsp; Less experienced than most hikers at camp, we thought&nbsp;that we had only completed 13 kilometers.&nbsp; We had failed to count the return distance until we talked with fellow hikers and they gasped at the distance we covered <em>(*it's important to note that there are different campsites and we picked our route beforehand, a route&nbsp;which few people did.&nbsp; I can assure you, this was done out of ignorance only)<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">﻿ </span></em></span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Our last two days proved relatively easy compared to the two days prior.&nbsp; On our fourth day, we slept in and trotted leisurely to our campsite.&nbsp; Torres Del Paine is full of micro ecosystems.&nbsp; The environments change daily and on&nbsp;this day, we had made our way away from the glaciers and onto the grass filled valley.&nbsp; We stopped at a few streams to grab a drink and take in the view.&nbsp; It's worth noting that the entire time we were in Torres Del paine, we never once filtered our water.&nbsp; We filled up our Nalgene's directly from the streams of melted glacier water.&nbsp; I was a bit concerned at first about the prospect of drinking directly from the stream. &nbsp;Thoughts of microscopic amoebas in the water and ensuing weeks on the toilet made me cringe before I took my first sip.&nbsp;But after confirming from multiple people that Torres Del Paine is one of the few places on earth with unspoiled resources, I embraced the idea.&nbsp; And, the water was amazing.&nbsp; Screw the bottle of Ice Mountain Water, I was literally drinking directy from the stream, running off a&nbsp;glacier in the mountain.&nbsp; I had embodied the illustrated graphic on countless bottles of water sold throughout the world, but this was the real McCoy.&nbsp;&nbsp;Although we took it easy that day, we smashed the hike and arrived at camp a full two hours earlier than people who had left before us.&nbsp; The thought of pizza and beer hung above my head, like a carrot driving a donkey in a cartoon.&nbsp;Having arrived at camp, I choked down another chicken flavored pasta dinner before calling it a very early night at 8:00 p.m.</span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowFullScreen='true' webkitallowfullscreen='true' mozallowfullscreen='true' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyafDT0eeeWFJoce17BrRz0fpFgtT_xdb_bE2LRAuJGtJhlMeaWijKTUaMHi1voYepcRKu9HfYICyGaGx-fJw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' FRAMEBORDER='0' /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">A video on our way up the French Valley.</span></strong></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOKgvrwoviI/AAAAAAAAAF4/b9fSINpUkhg/s1600/CIMG0436.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" px="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOKgvrwoviI/AAAAAAAAAF4/b9fSINpUkhg/s640/CIMG0436.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">The trail sometimes disappeared.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOHtQkw4dwI/AAAAAAAAAFk/YCAJhUN7ch4/s1600/CIMG0463.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" px="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOHtQkw4dwI/AAAAAAAAAFk/YCAJhUN7ch4/s640/CIMG0463.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Lake Nordenskjold.</span></strong><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">They next morning we&nbsp;donned our headlamps and set out at 3:30 a.m. in time to make it to the towers by sunset for the grand finale.&nbsp; Having gone to bed while it&nbsp;was still light out the past few days, I had not yet seen the stars in Torres Del Paine.&nbsp; When I peaked my head outside, I smiled from ear-to-ear.&nbsp; The stars were so numerable, it was hard to find the dark space between them.&nbsp; Outside of my trip to New Zealand, I had never seen a sky filled so abundantly with twinkling stars.&nbsp; We had ahead of us a two hour hike in the dark before we reached the base camp.&nbsp; Afterward, we would have to scramble nearly vertically up a feld of boulders for 45 minutes before reaching the view point.&nbsp; Our adrenaline was pumping when we hit the trail that morning, both from excitement and fear of life and limb.&nbsp; It was drilled in our head before we left that if we were injured in the park, we might as well pray that our friends can carry us out.&nbsp; Ranger Bill will not appear and rescue you like he does in the movies. Not to mention, the thougt of&nbsp;a&nbsp;Puma jumping out of the bush to eat my delicious human flesh crossed my mind more than once.&nbsp; Each step I took that morning was premeditated.&nbsp; The park has a handful of elevated water crossings, where streams become impassable on foot. Navigating these in the dark will make the hair stand up onthe back of your neck at times.&nbsp; They look like they are constructed with second hand lincoln logs and you can feel their eb and flow as your tip-toe across them.&nbsp; We reached base camp early.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">The last 45 minutes before reaching the top of the look out was without question the&nbsp;most painful part of our five day hike for me.&nbsp; When I checked the map prior to our departure, it had indicated this 45 minute ascent with an arrow pointing straight to the heavens. After four full days of hiking, my body was spent and running on adrenaline.&nbsp; Christina tried her best to cheer me on, but&nbsp;she knew that I was losing steam.&nbsp;&nbsp;With one last push, we made it to the top and quickly threw on all of the clothes we had stripped off on our way up.&nbsp; As the sun eclipsed the horizon, I got a bit emotional, though I did not show it.&nbsp; Nine months ago I had&nbsp;planted a tiny seed in the back of my mind that if I tried hard enough, I could make it to Patagonia and do the "W".&nbsp; Now, here I was at the end of the world after over 90 kilometers of hiking, sitting on a boulder, taking it all in.&nbsp; More than any other time in my life, I had proved to myself that if I put my mind to something, to anything, I can make it happen.&nbsp; And, what an amazing feeling that is.</span><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOHuFo5B7lI/AAAAAAAAAFs/x09E9nHWqDg/s1600/CIMG0523.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" px="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOHuFo5B7lI/AAAAAAAAAFs/x09E9nHWqDg/s640/CIMG0523.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Torres for sunrise!</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOHuxeO6SMI/AAAAAAAAAFw/-nQykMrwoy4/s1600/CIMG0558.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" px="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOHuxeO6SMI/AAAAAAAAAFw/-nQykMrwoy4/s640/CIMG0558.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Kicking back with our fellow treckers, waiting for the bus back home.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowFullScreen='true' webkitallowfullscreen='true' mozallowfullscreen='true' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dy3ereB5xY08bLdRiWu5wsaeShztpESmE6IxNC1i8dVbox2U6CCfIc9nlYtf402f7qT7MGdssICFxvncEvCQg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' FRAMEBORDER='0' /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Video from the Torres on the last day.</span></strong></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOKgbY1k-YI/AAAAAAAAAF0/bpSI2j9EPBQ/s1600/CIMG0556.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" px="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOKgbY1k-YI/AAAAAAAAAF0/bpSI2j9EPBQ/s640/CIMG0556.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>Just finished trecking!&nbsp; Christina admiring her boots and the last of our chicken flavored food.</strong></span></td></tr></tbody></table><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">&nbsp;</span></strong><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">﻿</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOHtraLy4mI/AAAAAAAAAFo/uXJrDDzZBv4/s1600/CIMG0456.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><img border="0" height="480" px="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TOHtraLy4mI/AAAAAAAAAFo/uXJrDDzZBv4/s640/CIMG0456.JPG" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>Made it to the lookout in the French Valley.</strong></span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿Clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012036308662052455noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3311062920813892531.post-20643512310472808672010-11-08T13:05:00.000-08:002010-11-08T13:05:20.871-08:00Ushuaia, Argentina: THE END OF THE WORLD<span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">We arrived in Ushuaia yesterday, after waking up at 2:30 a.m. to catch our 5:50 a.m. flight.&nbsp; Not only did our airline move our flight up by seven hour to the ass crack of dawn the day before we were to leave, but we didn't find out until late the night before our departure that the airport we were supposed to fly out of had closed.&nbsp; When I asked the lady who ran our hostel why?&nbsp; She responded, "Agghh, it's just Argentina." in a thick accident.&nbsp; So, instead of a 15 minute ride, we would have to pay 150 pesos to have a taxi pick&nbsp;us up as most Argentines clubs were just opening their doors.&nbsp;<em> Agghh, Argentina</em>.&nbsp; We arrived to a scene of relatively organized chaos at the airport. The&nbsp;closing of the domestic airport&nbsp;had&nbsp;left the larger airport overwhelmed and unable to deal with the sudden influx of passengers.&nbsp;As we walked through the sliding doors we were greeted to the sight of about 200&nbsp;passengers waiting to check in to our airline.&nbsp;&nbsp;In broken spanish, I asked the&nbsp;gentleman tending the entrance to the check in if this was the correct line for Ushuaia.&nbsp; He pointed to the back of the line, where Christina slumped over our luggage cart, tired and discouraged.&nbsp; Luckily, we had arrived to the airport nearly two hours early because when we found our way to that same gentleman nearly&nbsp;an hour later he, with emphatic gestures, pointed to the end of the line.&nbsp; At that moment, Christina and I looked and saw a&nbsp;dimly lit sign for "Domestic Departures" hanging from the cieling.&nbsp; We hauled ass to the&nbsp;check in desk and quickly realized that we were amongst a&nbsp;growing contingent of passengers that had fallen victim to the chaos.&nbsp; We made our flight, thank god.&nbsp; I felt terrible for Christina, who was suffering from a head cold and a&nbsp;very poor start to her 26th birthday.&nbsp; </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Arriving in Ushuaia after spending the past five days in&nbsp;the insanity that is Buenos Aires, we were in&nbsp;for a bit of a shock.&nbsp; Imagine going 100 m.p.h. and then hitting the breaks and stopping, nearly completely.&nbsp;&nbsp;This is what it's&nbsp;like&nbsp;going from Ushuaia to Buenos Aires.&nbsp; Ushuaia is a town of about 60,000 people and the southern most city&nbsp;in the world.&nbsp;&nbsp;Civilization south of Ushuaia consists of outposts for scientists and tourists visiting Antarctica.&nbsp; We are about 1000K from&nbsp;Antarctica now.&nbsp; It is 9:00p.m. and the sun is still shining.&nbsp;&nbsp;This is a change that Christina and I both welcomed.&nbsp; We left Chicago because we wanted to escape the madness of the city.&nbsp; Arriving in Ushuaia, we both exhaled with a sigh of relief&nbsp;and although tired and travel weary, were excited to explore this sleepy seaside mountain town in the&nbsp;Tierra Del Fuego.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">After getting our lodging situated, we headed into town to grab some stiff coffee (not hard to find here, espresso is the only form of coffee in S. America) and get on with our day.&nbsp; We booked a tour of the beagle channel, where we would visit islands inhabited by seals, arctic birds and other wildlife.&nbsp; Sitting atop the boat as we departed the dock, Christina and I&nbsp;both looked at each other and smiled.&nbsp; Neither of us said a word, but as I&nbsp;sat tight with my arm around her and we took in the&nbsp;views of the Beagle Channel, the town of Ushuaia and the jagged snow capped mountains&nbsp;of&nbsp;Chile and Argentina, our thoughts were the same.&nbsp; This is why we left, this is the experience we were looking for and had worked so hard to get to.&nbsp; Life&nbsp;at the end of the world is a beautiful thing.</span><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNdUMHY8tUI/AAAAAAAAAEk/I9epVXHf8e4/s1600/DSC_0045.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_uid_sfgius="96" height="428" px="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNdUMHY8tUI/AAAAAAAAAEk/I9epVXHf8e4/s640/DSC_0045.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">The end of the world, ain't it great!</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNdTkZma7OI/AAAAAAAAAEc/b0FZsLHsnXw/s1600/DSC_0017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_uid_sfgius="97" height="428" px="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNdTkZma7OI/AAAAAAAAAEc/b0FZsLHsnXw/s640/DSC_0017.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>Local wildlife.</strong></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNdT3rN823I/AAAAAAAAAEg/4bq_yvgK-l8/s1600/DSC_0038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_uid_sfgius="98" height="428" px="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNdT3rN823I/AAAAAAAAAEg/4bq_yvgK-l8/s640/DSC_0038.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Can you spot Waldo?</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNdUdje5R2I/AAAAAAAAAEo/TFawhnpW05Y/s1600/DSC_0046.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_uid_sfgius="99" height="428" px="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNdUdje5R2I/AAAAAAAAAEo/TFawhnpW05Y/s640/DSC_0046.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Our ride to the Island where we hiked for an hour.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNdUrVyrw3I/AAAAAAAAAEs/c73gDbJuhSk/s1600/DSC_0056.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_uid_sfgius="100" height="428" px="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNdUrVyrw3I/AAAAAAAAAEs/c73gDbJuhSk/s640/DSC_0056.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Trekking on the Island.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Thankfully, Christina and I both popped some motion sickness pills before leaving.&nbsp; The wind whipped up into a frenzy and the boat was pitching rather&nbsp;badly.&nbsp; We had to skip one&nbsp;of the islands on the tour, because&nbsp;our ship could not handle the waves without sea-sickness spreading rapidly amongst our group of foreigners.&nbsp; Inspite of the bitter cold and the waves,&nbsp;it was a story book day.&nbsp; We spent roughly an hour on an uninhabited&nbsp;island, looking at the archeological remians of the&nbsp;natives that used to inhabit it and examining some of&nbsp;the local flora and fauna.&nbsp; I even tried some berries that the&nbsp;natives used to eat.&nbsp; No wonder they resigned themselves to&nbsp;seal blubber, they were so bitter I spent the next hour spitting out the acrid taste.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Later that night, Christina and I headed out for her birthday dinner.&nbsp; We stopped in at a Chilean seafood restaurant and both battled exhaust from the never-ending day.&nbsp; We stared across the table at each other, wishing our food would just eat itself so we could go home and go to bed. After engulfing an entire bowl of local crab meat, we crawled home and settled in for roughly 12 hours of sleep.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Today we woke up and decided to hike the Martial Glacier.&nbsp; We took a taxi to the bottom and because the chair lift was not operating at the time we decided to hike&nbsp;to the top.&nbsp; After roughly fifteen minutes of hiking up the steep incline, we were peeling off clothes like&nbsp;a stripper in Las Vegas.&nbsp; Christina,&nbsp;an avid runner who recently trained for a half marathon&nbsp;was&nbsp;winded, but doing fine.&nbsp; My beer gut and I, however, were having more trouble.&nbsp; Towards the top, boot prints became&nbsp;scarce and it was clear that we&nbsp;were amongst only a handful of people who decided to venture all the way to the glacier.&nbsp; Martial Glacier is like an ice cube compared to most of the glaciers in&nbsp;Patagonia.&nbsp;&nbsp;And, hiking up a&nbsp;45 degree angle for the last&nbsp;fifty minutes of the hike is enough to deter most people.&nbsp; Determined, however, that we needed to make it to the top to prove to ourselves we were indeed fit enough for our five day hike of the "W" circuit in Torres Del Paine National Park, we&nbsp;eventually made it.&nbsp; I'll be honest, the&nbsp;glacier is nothing spectacular.&nbsp; In&nbsp;fact, when covered in snow as it was, it looks more an oversized ski hill in the Mid-West.&nbsp; Regardless, the views from the top were spectacular. And, having the piece of mind that we hiked from nearly sea level, to nearly the top of a mountain, we were happy.&nbsp; We popped a squat for fifteen minutes to enjoy the view, before spending another hour walking to the base.&nbsp; After a cup&nbsp;of coffee at the base, we called a cab and headed to Ushuaia Prison.</span><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNdX7rMjpgI/AAAAAAAAAEw/0tRu64b9-oc/s1600/DSC_0070.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_uid_sfgius="254" height="428" px="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNdX7rMjpgI/AAAAAAAAAEw/0tRu64b9-oc/s640/DSC_0070.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Maybe the best view all day.&nbsp; Ushuaia is in the background, at the bottom.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNdYKBLWzAI/AAAAAAAAAE0/itmYokJB8CI/s1600/DSC_0072.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_uid_sfgius="255" height="640" px="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNdYKBLWzAI/AAAAAAAAAE0/itmYokJB8CI/s640/DSC_0072.JPG" width="428" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">I had to squeeze a smile out for this pic.&nbsp; I was hurting.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNdYX65t7QI/AAAAAAAAAE4/YDe70Xys-F8/s1600/DSC_0079.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_uid_sfgius="256" height="428" px="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNdYX65t7QI/AAAAAAAAAE4/YDe70Xys-F8/s640/DSC_0079.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">This is Christina kicking my ass.&nbsp; She did not realize the slowest person sets the pace.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNdYqfJV-GI/AAAAAAAAAE8/1BnDSQuw25Y/s1600/DSC_0094.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_uid_sfgius="257" height="640" px="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNdYqfJV-GI/AAAAAAAAAE8/1BnDSQuw25Y/s640/DSC_0094.JPG" width="428" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Look at me!&nbsp; I am stoic mountain man!!!!</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNdZGSbMrgI/AAAAAAAAAFA/WnCvPtHqZgE/s1600/DSC_0113.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_uid_sfgius="258" height="640" px="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNdZGSbMrgI/AAAAAAAAAFA/WnCvPtHqZgE/s640/DSC_0113.JPG" width="428" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Ushuaia Prison.&nbsp; Or, as the translated sign read: Is Ushuaia Prison, you in.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span>&nbsp;<span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">The U.S. sent their worst prisoners to Alcatraz, the British to Austraila and the Argentines to Ushuaia.&nbsp; We spent about an hour touring the prison turned make-shift&nbsp;museum learning both about Ushuaia as a hub of Antarctic exploration and its reputation as the last stop for many Argentine Convicts.&nbsp; The Spanish to English translations were laughable, so was the spelling.&nbsp; But given my broken Spanish, I certainly can't point the finger.&nbsp; Exhausted,&nbsp;my dogs barking and legs burning, we headed back to our hostel after gathering some goodies for our 12 hour bus ride tomorrow through the mountains, to Punta Arenas, Chile.&nbsp; Have to wake up at 4.a.m. to catch our bus and currently waiting for a pizza that I hopefully ordered correctly.&nbsp; We will spend roughly the next&nbsp;two weeks hopping around Patagonia, so we need to prepare.&nbsp; Ciao for now.&nbsp;&nbsp;Thanks for following our Adventure.</span><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Clay</span></strong>Clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012036308662052455noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3311062920813892531.post-83709715210355485432010-11-06T06:28:00.000-07:002010-11-06T16:58:48.909-07:00Buenos Aires, Argentina<span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">We arrived in Buenos Aires on November 2nd, thankfully.&nbsp; We have found South American airlines can be a bit unreliable.&nbsp; Slightly buzzed after a night of dinner and wine (wine is really good and way too affordable here) we arrived back at our makeshift lodge to find out our flight to Buenos Aires had been moved to that evening.&nbsp; This would have killed our first day in Buenos Aires and since our departing&nbsp;flight had already been&nbsp;moved up by twelve hours, our time in Buenos Aires was shrinking rather quickly.&nbsp; We woke up and after a small piece of bread for breakfast, decided to head to the airport to see if we could catch the earlier flight out.&nbsp; Of course our taxi failed to show so the nice Frenchman who ran our hotel agreed to run us to the airport.&nbsp;&nbsp; There were no seatbelts, so we held on to the&nbsp;"holy shit bars" and prayed we would make it in once piece.&nbsp; Thanks to&nbsp;Jaime, we made an earlier flight and extended&nbsp;our time here by about a day.</span><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNSeTDzKt_I/AAAAAAAAAEI/lay3hD98_T4/s1600/DSC_0141.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" px="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNSeTDzKt_I/AAAAAAAAAEI/lay3hD98_T4/s640/DSC_0141.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Welcome to Buenos Aires.&nbsp; Thank god Christina is good with directions!</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Arriving in Buenos Aires, we hailed a taxi to take us to the San Telmo neighborhood.&nbsp; Having spent the past five years in Chicago, I'm all too familiar with bad driving and hell bent taxi drivers.&nbsp; Let me tell you that Chicago taxi drivers have nothing on the taxi drivers in Buenos Aires.&nbsp; This was quickly apparent when I saw our driver's car was equipped with a racing steering wheel wrapped in the same material I use to wrap to my raquetball racket.&nbsp; Christina and I traded glances as we rubbed bumpers with other cars.&nbsp;&nbsp; In Grand Prix style, we made it to our destination and stumbled out of the race car and onto the cobblestone streets of&nbsp;San Telmo.&nbsp; The San Telmo&nbsp;barrio (or neighborhood)&nbsp;is the former residence of Buenos Aires' elite.&nbsp; The neighborhood is composed&nbsp;of beautiful but aging European style mansions, abandoned when disease stuck more than a century and the immigrants moved in.&nbsp; It has since then become a hub of artists, hippie&nbsp;fairs, antique shops and markets galore.&nbsp; We were a bit weary after hearing from some fellow travel mates attending a semester college abroad&nbsp;here that San Telmo was dangerous. But, after living in Chicago and having spent the previous week in Rio, San&nbsp;Telmo seemed like Disney Land.</span><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNSeCTOUZlI/AAAAAAAAAEE/t0jsjoIIUqw/s1600/DSC_0195.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" px="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNSeCTOUZlI/AAAAAAAAAEE/t0jsjoIIUqw/s640/DSC_0195.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Typical of San Telmo.&nbsp; Old, slightly banged up, but beautiful and full of character.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Coming from Puerto Iguazu, where life moves at a snail's pace, Buenos Aires took time to adjust to.&nbsp;&nbsp; Buenos Aires is a sprawling city of various cultures and classes, with 13 million people packed into its quarters.&nbsp; Like most big cities, Buenos Aires comes with some baggage, but the&nbsp;difference in&nbsp;culture seems to put these problems under a microscope if you're an outsider.&nbsp; With some of the widest roads in the entire world, traffic here more closely resembles a school of swarming fish, jockeying for position with no where to go.&nbsp; Graffiti marks nearly every building and even the most sacred of historical city monuments are not without some political epitaphs scrawled on the side.&nbsp; Imagine graffiti on the Statue of Liberty, the Washington Monument, or the Lincoln Memorial and you'll get a more accurate picture of the graffiti&nbsp; problem here.&nbsp; Sidewalks are strewn with trash in some places and Buenos Aires is notorious for the dog shit that lines its streets.&nbsp; Strolling down the sidewalk can at times feel like a never ending game of hop-scotch.&nbsp; Air quality is also not great here, as buses spew streams of exhaust upon accelerating and even twleve year old kids walking to school can be seen smoking, like most other Argentines.&nbsp; Each city comes with good and bad and&nbsp;this is certainly the bad part of Buenos Aires.&nbsp; But, like Chicago, the city that although I loved I also loved to hate, Buenos Aires has an amazing culture that is completely unique.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">We spent our first day in Buenos Aires walking the city aimlessly, trying to get a bearing on the place.&nbsp; At night, we accidentally stumbled upon Florida Street (which was on our list of things to do)&nbsp;and decided to sieze the opportunity to explore one of BA's most touted attractions.&nbsp; Florida Steet is less of a street and more of a tiled "go-between" situated inbetween buildings.&nbsp;&nbsp; It is lined with thousands of vendors showcasing their product on tattered&nbsp;blankets spaced about three feet from each other, spanning for what has to be at least a mile or two.&nbsp; All vendors were not created equal.&nbsp; Many sell intricate and completely unique hand crafted jewelry.&nbsp; If you stand near their blanket long enough, you can watch as they sit indian-style,&nbsp;sip their mate (An Argentine herbal-style tea pronounced like latte) and create these works of art before your very eyes. Hand crafted leather is also big and if you knew anything about the Argentine obsession with beef, you would quickly understand.&nbsp; Other vendors sell bizzzare odds and ends: little mechanical dogs that walk in circles or play the drums, knock off lingerie, sunglasses and everything else that you could possibly knock off, even old American vinyl records.&nbsp; After stumblinng around Florida street for a few hours, we grabbed a cheap but amazing bottle of wine and decided to head back and watch the city from our balcony.&nbsp; Two glasses into the delicious Malbec,&nbsp; travel fatigue quickly set in and we resigned ourself to the fact that we would not be heading out but instead catching up on some much needed rest.</span><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNSg63RwGoI/AAAAAAAAAEU/LDIii90NVfo/s1600/DSC_0225.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" px="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNSg63RwGoI/AAAAAAAAAEU/LDIii90NVfo/s640/DSC_0225.JPG" width="428" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Like most historical monuments in Buenos Aires, full of grafiti and political dissent.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">The following day is was unusually hot in BA for Spring.&nbsp; Noting that we had not seen a single person wearing shorts, Christina and I tried to blend in&nbsp;(if that was possible) her wearing jeans and myself pants as we ventured out to explore&nbsp;our new city.&nbsp;&nbsp; The decision to wear pants would nearly lead to a melt down later, after six hours of walking crowded streets with little food.&nbsp; Although at times we appeared to wander aimlessly, Christina always managed to find our destinations as we visited La Casa Rosada (Argentine version of the&nbsp;White House, but pink where Evita would make speeches from the balcony), the city's towering obelisk monument, the famous Teatro Colon theatre&nbsp;and the&nbsp;Recoletta cemetery.&nbsp; Recoletta cemetery was certainly a memorable expereince, it is no&nbsp;wonder it's a huge tourist attraction in Buenos Aires.&nbsp; Like a small city for the dead, Recoletta's streets are lined with ornate and often ancient mausoleums housing entire families in structures chizzled out of marble and granite, often with multiple floors.&nbsp; Dignitaries, Presidents and the social elite are buried here in mausoleums&nbsp;so large and expansive that many resemble small houses complete with interiors and chairs that allow the family access to pay thier respects.&nbsp; We walked the cemetery for over an hour, the resident cats criss-crossing in front and behind us, before finally calling it quits after too much walking and too much sun.&nbsp; We both struggled to find a place serving empanadas before we used the last bit of our energy and collapsed in a cab after six hours of walking on a very hot day.</span><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNSJQs36bNI/AAAAAAAAADs/luJc73DfR7o/s1600/CIMG0294.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" px="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNSJQs36bNI/AAAAAAAAADs/luJc73DfR7o/s640/CIMG0294.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>In La Boca, the working class neighborhood on Camanito Calle</strong></span></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNSXNRRePwI/AAAAAAAAAD0/Zj-IRAqHXJk/s1600/DSC_0162.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" px="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNSXNRRePwI/AAAAAAAAAD0/Zj-IRAqHXJk/s640/DSC_0162.JPG" width="428" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">One of the cats, one of the mausoleums.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNSccN9cSwI/AAAAAAAAAD4/9ZG0hmRV1Tk/s1600/DSC_0168.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" px="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNSccN9cSwI/AAAAAAAAAD4/9ZG0hmRV1Tk/s640/DSC_0168.JPG" width="428" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">It keeps going and going and going...</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNSdTPPLgCI/AAAAAAAAAEA/mVS0B6CbUKo/s1600/DSC_0151.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" px="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNSdTPPLgCI/AAAAAAAAAEA/mVS0B6CbUKo/s640/DSC_0151.JPG" width="428" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Inside of a mauseloum.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNSJ42xwoYI/AAAAAAAAADw/O1w1Lg-KeSk/s1600/CIMG0259.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" px="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNSJ42xwoYI/AAAAAAAAADw/O1w1Lg-KeSk/s640/CIMG0259.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Recoletta Cemetery</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">After recooperating, we headed out to catch some dinner at Des Nivel, a Parilla recommended by our Argentine hostel mate we met in Rio.&nbsp; Dinner in Argentina doesn't even begin until 10:30 p.m.&nbsp; Head out any earlier than that and prepare yourself to sit in a restaurant alone, where the oven hasn't even been turned on yet.&nbsp; Argentina is a society drunk on beef.&nbsp;&nbsp; My cholesterol has taken a beating since being here, as I have subsided on nothing but steak, red wine and empanadas.&nbsp; I'm not complaining as anyone who knows me knows my obsession with meat. But after nearly a week without a single vegetable a carrot sounds pretty good right now and&nbsp;I think my colon would agree.&nbsp; The streets here are lined with Parillas, the Argentine version of a steak house.&nbsp; My favorite cut so far is the Bife De Chroizo, also one of the most popular.&nbsp; It's rib cut, where they have removed the ribs and grilled it like all of their stakes, over a huge&nbsp;wood fire.&nbsp; Because of the cut and the fire, it screams with flavor.&nbsp; Take one bit of this puppy and your tastebuds will&nbsp; send you to&nbsp;a la-la land located smack dab in the middle of&nbsp;beef heaven.&nbsp; After experiencing Bife De Chorizo, Fliet Mignon will seem like scrap meat to toss to Fido.&nbsp; The best part of a steak dinner here is the bill, or la cuenta, or as I had been calling it&nbsp;for the past few days: La Chequeta (which actually means jacket.&nbsp; My spanish is rusty, I did not realize how rusty.)&nbsp; If you want to spend more than $30 U.S. on a dinner you'll have to try real hard: two steaks and an amazing bottle of wine will set you back about $20 because the exchange rate here it 4:1.&nbsp; During the day time, you have at your&nbsp;fingertips any number of tasty meat concoctions to choose from.&nbsp; The empanadas here are amazing, it's like an Argentine hot pocket made to be moblile.&nbsp; They are typically stuffed with beef, ham and cheese,&nbsp;or roquefort cheese, though the quality and preparation vary from vendor to vendor.&nbsp; My personal favorite is the Choripon Sandwhich.&nbsp; To make a choripon, they split a chorizo sausage, throw it in the flat top with some crusty bread to crisp up and smother it with chimichurri sauce.&nbsp; It goes for about $1 U.S. and will leave you dreaming of flying sausages when you go to bed later that night.</span><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNS695ou4fI/AAAAAAAAAEY/BD8cKWEeXPI/s1600/DSC_0131.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" px="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNS695ou4fI/AAAAAAAAAEY/BD8cKWEeXPI/s640/DSC_0131.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">La Casa Rosada. Evita delivered many speeches from here.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNSgIm6zTZI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/T8_Xwxe45u8/s1600/DSC_0176.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="428" px="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNSgIm6zTZI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/T8_Xwxe45u8/s640/DSC_0176.JPG" width="640" /></span></strong></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">&nbsp;Sausages hanging to dry in the antiques market in San Telmo.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">We spent yesterday touring the antique market here in San Telmo before heading to the Ecological Reserve.&nbsp; San Telmo is known as an antiques hub and it certainly lived up to it's reputation.&nbsp; One of the markets here is housed inside a giant warehouse-like structure.&nbsp; There are vendors galore, selling everything you can imagine.&nbsp; Christina perused the aisles with&nbsp;wide eyes&nbsp;as I peeled off to more&nbsp;closely examine&nbsp;the butchers and&nbsp;the sausages they were curing and drying.&nbsp; It was a relaxing day, nothing blog worthy, but later that night would be quite the opposite.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Later that night we met up with Maria, one my best friend's little sister who has been living in BA for the past two years working as a painter and teaching English on the side.&nbsp;&nbsp;Her parents were also in town, so we siezed the opportunity to meet up with some familiar faces and enjoy both hanging out with a local and abandoning my broken Spanish for a while.&nbsp; We met them at Torquato Tasso, a local (not tourist) tango spot that also hosts a variety of musical acts.&nbsp; We ordered two bottles of Malbec and some meat and cheese trays as we were serenaded by a quartet of amazing musicians playing the&nbsp;classical guitar in beautiful syncopated rhythm.&nbsp; It was amazing.&nbsp; After the guitar act came a satire musical ensemble in leiu of where we thought the tango would be.&nbsp; After an hour of listening to satire/faux comedy in Spanish, we realized that we had come on the wrong night and decided to venture out around mindnight to find another tango spot.&nbsp; After another hair raising taxi ride, we arrived at Nino Bien, a famous tango spot that has apparently been written about in a number of novels.&nbsp; As we worked our way up the&nbsp;winding marble staircase it was quickly apparent that I did not fit.&nbsp; We had walked into a completely legit tango joint not&nbsp;like the expensive ones put on to the draw the tourist dollars.&nbsp; Women&nbsp;were wearing&nbsp;high heals, beautiful form fitting dresses with thier hair and nails manicured accordingly and men were wearing suits with ascots and well polished shoes.&nbsp; I on the other hand, was wearing a pair of jeans that had not been washed in nine days, burkenstocks, and a plaid shirt that had the thickness of a grease stained napkin.&nbsp; Christina, on the other hand, looked beautiful as always.&nbsp; We walked into a ballroom where about 200 well dressed men and women sat at tables with white table cloths.&nbsp; We were, without question, the only gringos in the joint.&nbsp; I was feeling a bit uneasy as we were catching quite a few eyes from the locals.&nbsp; They must have thought we were neanderthals.&nbsp; But, after all, this is the type of experience I had wanted.&nbsp; Something real, not something manufactured for tourist dollars.&nbsp; After settling in at a table with some more wine, the curtains as if on cue&nbsp;were lifted and the small orchestra ensemble began to pluck strings to create what would soon become a familiar tango sound.&nbsp; In what seemed like complete unison, people of&nbsp;all shapes and sizes and age flooded the dance floor and began to dance Tango.&nbsp; Tango is a peculiar dance, rehearsed and yet completely spontaneous.&nbsp; Hands clasped in the air, women close their eyes and hang on to their men as they glide gracefully across the dance floor, reacting to both eachother and the syncopation of the music.&nbsp; It's a beautiful thing to watch, especially when done well.&nbsp; At one point, the floor cleared and a man old enough to be my grandpa appeared with a beautiful young woman with jet black hair and a purple dress that appeared to be painted on.&nbsp; Timing their first step with the first pluck of the violin, the couple made their way across the sprawling dance floor and back, without seemingly having even touched their feet to the ground.&nbsp; It was grace and a spectacle to be seen.&nbsp; Even more amazing was that the man looked like he should be hobbling around with a walker, not a beautiful vixen.&nbsp; The dance ended and the crowd applauded.&nbsp; Although we suffered through quite a few stares, enough to make anyone uncomfortable, we were grateful to have experienced a traditional &nbsp;milonga.&nbsp; At 3a.m. we called it a night.&nbsp; Some video below.</span><br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowFullScreen='true' webkitallowfullscreen='true' mozallowfullscreen='true' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzPKiAUypv5ga4VZRUmNJ-fuHY_v2Vkj43fHSEexKfxfb6bN1TjihkDCG5q1UAn_lLw-YH5Nytg9eXAZn2A' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' FRAMEBORDER='0' /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Just arrived safely in Ushuaia, Argentina&nbsp;moments ago.&nbsp; It's the southern most city in the world.&nbsp; Unfortunantly, had to get up at 2:30 a.m. to catch our flight.&nbsp; Looking forward to some clean air and some adventures outdoor. It's Christina's birthday, what a better place to spend it than at the end of the world.&nbsp; Also, I apologize for spelling errors.&nbsp; After five years in the corporate world with automatic spell check, it's hard to get used to using your brain again.&nbsp; Thank for tuning it.&nbsp; The next two weeks will be spent up and down Patagonia, but at the moment we have little planned.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Clay</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"></div>Clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012036308662052455noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3311062920813892531.post-10381802040780809082010-11-02T18:05:00.000-07:002010-11-02T18:05:45.559-07:00Iguazu Falls.<span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">I'm sitting here on a table made out of a tree stump, sipping a beer as roosters and chickens peck the ground near my feet, trying to comprehend what I've seen the last few days.&nbsp; I questioned whether it was worth the time and money to venture to Iquazu Falls, just to see some water fall off a rock.&nbsp; Indeed, it was worth every penny and every minute.&nbsp; With 220 waterfalls, Iguazu falls spans continously&nbsp;for miles, making Niagra look like it's got a prostate problem at best.&nbsp; It is a place, like many other wonders of the world, that is impossible to describe.&nbsp; Pictures won't do it justice, you must see it up close and personal to grasp the magnitude of something so large.&nbsp; I tried to stop myself from taking pictures knowing that they would only mean&nbsp;something to Christina and myself.&nbsp; But, when you see something of such beauty, something so impressive, your urge is to document it as much as possible.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">The land of butterflies, waterfalls and rainbows does exist and it's not&nbsp;an episode from My Little Pony, though at times it did&nbsp;seem like it.&nbsp;&nbsp;The falls lie on the border of Paraguay, Brazil and Argentina.&nbsp;&nbsp;We flew in yesterday and&nbsp;visited the Brazil side,&nbsp;finally arriving at our destination after nearly two hours on the wrong bus.&nbsp;&nbsp;We got to the falls eventually but were a bit on edge after (actually, it was probably just me).&nbsp; In my defense, it was election day in&nbsp;Brazil and the visitors center was packed&nbsp;with throngs of people voting on a holiday weekend.&nbsp; After&nbsp;five days of trying to make&nbsp;my&nbsp;way around with make-shift&nbsp;Porteuguse (which now consists of five words), I was ready to see the falls and get to Argentina where I can speak in my broken Spanglish.&nbsp;&nbsp;The Brazil side offers panoramic views of the falls, but the experience is not nearly as intimate as Argentina. We spent about four hours&nbsp;on the Brazil side&nbsp;before calling it quits and attempting to hail a&nbsp;taxi to take us through the border to Argentina.&nbsp; Little did we know, crossing the border would be the easy part.&nbsp; We&nbsp;grew concerned about finding our hotel after the taxi driver stopped to ask directions and eventually took us down a red&nbsp;dirt road with no street signs but instead lots of roosters and stray dogs.&nbsp; We finally arived to our hotel, which turned out to be a little piece of heaven away from town.&nbsp; We were exhausted so we took down a few beers at sunset and played fetch with Santo, the hotel dog who was enormous, slightly ferel, had huge balls&nbsp;and for some reason, was always wearing a t-shirt. After a&nbsp;quck shower we grabbed some dinner before&nbsp;calling it an early night at 1 a.m.</span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNCvcJ6Sh_I/AAAAAAAAADo/6BAilOUCqmg/s1600/DSC_0125.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" nx="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNCvcJ6Sh_I/AAAAAAAAADo/6BAilOUCqmg/s640/DSC_0125.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Street where our lodging was located.&nbsp; Off the beaten path, but we loved it.&nbsp; Orange trees, chickens and dogs everywhere.</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNB3epMVYpI/AAAAAAAAADQ/IgrxmYHQ9Gs/s1600/CIMG0122.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" nx="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNB3epMVYpI/AAAAAAAAADQ/IgrxmYHQ9Gs/s640/CIMG0122.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>One of the panoramic views from the Brazilian side.</strong></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowFullScreen='true' webkitallowfullscreen='true' mozallowfullscreen='true' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxGe6n_tiHUmZYTUT1vD3DTZHv0pypw6H3p_6oI4-rqyCNZAaNsvBlIodOhTbBUb8zJHva7k3od12n3U9lUwg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' FRAMEBORDER='0' /></div><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">In Argentina, you spend your time walking trails in the ranforest surrounded by wildlife of all sorts.&nbsp; There is a South American racoon that we became quite familiar with.&nbsp; It will steal food from your plate, it will bite you if you get too close, and it's damn cute.&nbsp; We had to scare these little guys off multiple times while munching on the Argentinian interpretation of a ham sandwhich.&nbsp; I will post a picture below.&nbsp; But again, there is no shortage of wildlife: we saw giant monitor lizards every few feet, butterflies by the thousands,&nbsp;beautiful&nbsp;birds (including a Tucan) and more.&nbsp; Argentina, unlike Brazil, puts you up close and personal with the falls.&nbsp; In fact, we took a boat directly underneath them which was cold, wet and exhilirating.&nbsp;&nbsp;The falls are nearly two miles long and are in consideration for being added as one of the "Seven Wonders of the World", which unbenounced to me, apparently&nbsp;rotates.&nbsp; Christina thought it was better than the Victoria Falls in Africa which is actually one of the&nbsp;Seven Wonders. Regardless, it is a wonder to me that these things even exist.&nbsp; Ranibows are abound in all sorts of shapes&nbsp;and sizes; single ranibows, double rainbows and rainbows that form a complete circle.&nbsp; If you think a double rainbow is impressive, wait until you&nbsp;see a circular rainbow.&nbsp; Yes ladies and gents,&nbsp;all of this exists and without the&nbsp;aid of psychadelic drugs.&nbsp; Come here, you won't regret it.&nbsp;</span><br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>Something beautiful lies beyond this ugly mug.&nbsp; Click to watch!</strong></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowFullScreen='true' webkitallowfullscreen='true' mozallowfullscreen='true' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyJnmgvS6t-rOuam_2nRaerxwXvDCGew_GxbNUZUjhWfolERhvdqPAgiKRK3piw3Eo-hNQntyV443WfZXV6EA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' FRAMEBORDER='0' /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNCo3G791nI/AAAAAAAAADU/oxC2l_BkAwc/s1600/DSC_0107.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" nx="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNCo3G791nI/AAAAAAAAADU/oxC2l_BkAwc/s640/DSC_0107.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>Multiply this times a thousand and you'll have a better understanding on how massive this place is.</strong></span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNCpWVRXobI/AAAAAAAAADY/CFsN-Q7kMv4/s1600/DSC_0076.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" nx="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNCpWVRXobI/AAAAAAAAADY/CFsN-Q7kMv4/s640/DSC_0076.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>Argentinian side, up close and personal.</strong></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNCsUG7ofyI/AAAAAAAAADc/m0SbgQr5NwA/s1600/falls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" nx="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNCsUG7ofyI/AAAAAAAAADc/m0SbgQr5NwA/s640/falls.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>We took the boat below underneath two falls.&nbsp; You get wet, very wet.</strong></span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ <br />﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNCsqTSYt7I/AAAAAAAAADg/TKBA2J4KYj4/s1600/falls+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" nx="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNCsqTSYt7I/AAAAAAAAADg/TKBA2J4KYj4/s640/falls+2.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>Picture number 101 of the day and counting.</strong></span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ <br />﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNCs-OWbjAI/AAAAAAAAADk/Isme5FhrM9E/s1600/CIMG0210.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" nx="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TNCs-OWbjAI/AAAAAAAAADk/Isme5FhrM9E/s640/CIMG0210.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>Last picture after a long day.&nbsp; Ready for some wine and beef!</strong></span><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">﻿Meant to have this up last night, but again ran into some connection problems.&nbsp; Arrived safely in Buenos Aires this afternoon and looking forward to $3 bottles of amazing wine and $10 grass fed, spit fired steaks.&nbsp; Hope everyone is well back home.&nbsp; Please become a follower and chime in with your thoughts.&nbsp; It will be nice to hear from people over the next two months.&nbsp; Thanks for following our adventure.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Clay and Christina</span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</span></div>Clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012036308662052455noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3311062920813892531.post-77381446250134291922010-10-31T15:00:00.000-07:002010-10-31T15:00:06.108-07:00City of God<span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">We are finishing up our fourth day in Rio, heading to Iguazu Falls tomorrow, but so sad to leave this beautiful city and the amazing people we've met along the way.&nbsp; There's a bit of a culture shock upon entering any foreign country, but we settled in rather quickly, remembering why it is&nbsp;we&nbsp;love to travel.&nbsp; When you fill each moment of the&nbsp;day with a completely unique, completely new experiences, it becomes addictive rather quickly.&nbsp; It's&nbsp;easy to see how people can peel off and travel for an entire year or more.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">We are staying in the Lighthouse Hostel in Ipanema Beach.&nbsp; The Lighthouse is owned and run by Sylvia, a vegetarinan athiest from Rio.&nbsp; Though I can't say I ever imagined I would warm up to someone&nbsp;who hated bacon and god, Sylvia has been amazing.&nbsp; Sylvia is like a mom with no actual children.&nbsp;&nbsp;When you own a hostel, you give birth to&nbsp;new children&nbsp;every three days.&nbsp;&nbsp;Some of our best adventures in&nbsp;Rio were accompinied by our fellow hostel mates.&nbsp; They are a&nbsp;wild mix from the&nbsp;States,Australia,France,Germany,Argentina,&nbsp;England and Brazil.&nbsp; Without them,&nbsp;our experience here would not be the same.&nbsp; Though we were all strangers&nbsp;with language barriers at first, it doesn't take much for fellow travelers to warm up to each other, as we each share a similar view: go explore the&nbsp;world you live in!</span><br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>﻿﻿﻿﻿ <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TM3iMFuJwWI/AAAAAAAAADI/Z23AlOK9wdA/s1600/CIMG0083.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" nx="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TM3iMFuJwWI/AAAAAAAAADI/Z23AlOK9wdA/s640/CIMG0083.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>Hostel row.&nbsp; Our accomodations weren't awesome, but the people were exquisite.</strong></span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿﻿﻿﻿ <span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Some highlights from the trip below</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Night One:&nbsp;&nbsp;Road weary and tired, we&nbsp;watched the sunset&nbsp;in Copacabana, then stumbled into a bar for drinks.&nbsp; We stayed quite a&nbsp;while, taking in the sights around&nbsp;as a few hours passed.&nbsp;&nbsp;The bar filled up with men, lots of men.&nbsp; Before we knew it, everyone was making out and groping each other.&nbsp; Too tired and slightly buzzed, we finally realized we had been sitting in a gay bar for the past three hours.&nbsp; We laughed and decided to call it a night after a&nbsp;Kabob.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Day two:&nbsp; We spent the first half of the day on a favela tour.&nbsp; The favela tour was, without question, one of the most eye opening and astounding things I have ever experienced.&nbsp; A favela is a slum in Rio run by drug lords.&nbsp; We visited a favela where&nbsp;300,000 people lived in the side of a mountain.&nbsp; Everything in a favela is technically illegal.&nbsp; They steal their electricity, there is no formal trash system, no sewage (it runs right beneath your&nbsp;feet in a&nbsp;small&nbsp;stream) and most importantly, there is no Brazilian law.&nbsp; The police rarely enter the favellas and for good reason: people usually die.&nbsp; Recently, some of the youths shot down a police helicoptor and the entire favella held a three day party to celebrate it. Corrupt and brutal, the police are despised in Brazil.&nbsp; In the favella, houses are built haphazardly in the hill side out of a mish-mash of found materials and stacked on top of each other like legos.&nbsp; A few bricks, some corrogated aluminum and clay shingles make up the majority of houses.&nbsp; There is a hierarchy, the rich live higher in the mountian, the poor live at the bottom with little water, also where the trash and&nbsp; sewage accumulates.&nbsp; To reach the favelas, we took a van to the bottom with our tour guide.&nbsp; The tour company built and runs&nbsp;a&nbsp;day cares in the favella and as such, are allowed in and out with their groups of Gringos with relative ease.&nbsp; At the bottom of the favella, we hopped on motorcycles and zoomed to the top in what seemed like a chase sequence from Lethal Weapon 3.&nbsp; I'll be honest, it was terrifying and enough to make your butthole pucker right up.&nbsp; Suprisingly, no one has ever died on their way up to the top.&nbsp; I wanted to videotape it, but there are many places in the favella where taking pictures and video are forbidden.&nbsp; Keep in mind, this is a small city run by drug gangs.&nbsp;During the tour, at multiple points we passed youths carrying Israeli sub machine guns.&nbsp; They serve as lookouts for the drug lords, monitoring everyone in and out of the favella.&nbsp; Taking pictures anywhere in their vacinity is strictly forbidden, although there are areas where pictures are allowed.&nbsp; However, inspite of the guide being very clear on when and where pictures were allowed, a dutch girl happend to take a picture in the general vacinity of a gang lookout.&nbsp; They ran after us shouting, machine guns slung over their shoulders and hand guns at thier side.&nbsp; Everyone in our group looked straight at the ground, unsure of what to do or what was about to take place.&nbsp; After a heated exchange with our guide, who was a&nbsp;stone cold&nbsp;Brazilian chick, the gang members agreed to take only her memory card.&nbsp; Phew, close call.&nbsp; This would not be our only encounter with violence in Rio.&nbsp; Some pics and video below, make sure you enlarge the screen.</span><br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowFullScreen='true' webkitallowfullscreen='true' mozallowfullscreen='true' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxb74wuY-3mn_t31J68fvgVsGFgGQNWFJmTEN3XKWK2R17hKIha8n2CUe0o9JUKonf-9Fehge_imPbjiefigg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' FRAMEBORDER='0' /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TMziPXJy-AI/AAAAAAAAACw/vM5DNAZNRSI/s1600/DSC_0018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="428" nx="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TMziPXJy-AI/AAAAAAAAACw/vM5DNAZNRSI/s640/DSC_0018.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />﻿ <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TMzirWJBMcI/AAAAAAAAAC0/KZGynRPPP3I/s1600/DSC_0005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" nx="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TMzirWJBMcI/AAAAAAAAAC0/KZGynRPPP3I/s640/DSC_0005.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>The favela is much bigger, this is just what I could fit in the frame.</strong></span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ <br />﻿﻿﻿ <br />﻿ <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TMzi9oeJkII/AAAAAAAAAC4/69flHn8PAVU/s1600/DSC_0008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="427" nx="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TMzi9oeJkII/AAAAAAAAAC4/69flHn8PAVU/s640/DSC_0008.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>View from the day care we visited.&nbsp; Only so many opportunities for pictures in the Favela</strong></span>.</td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ ﻿﻿﻿ <span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">That same night</span><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">On our 2nd night in Rio, we decided to go with a group of our hostel mates to see a futbol game.&nbsp; We all hopped in a van for what we thought would be a thirty minute drive to the stadium. We grabbed some coxinhas (basically fried chicken balls)&nbsp;and a few beers for the road and drank quickly, as alcohol is not served in the stadiums anymore.&nbsp; Trust me, the games are rowdy without alcohol, they dont serve it for good reason.&nbsp; Two hours into our thirty minute ride, I was praying to every god in existence to get to a bathroom, so I would not be forced to pee my pants infront of my new friends.&nbsp; There are only a few times in my life that I have contemplated what steps I would take if forced to pee my own pants.&nbsp; This was one of them.&nbsp; The futbol game was awesome.&nbsp; People in Brazil take futbol very seriously and because of this, everyone in the stadium is either extremely happy or extremely angry at the same time,&nbsp;and I can tell you that being around either is enough to put you on edge.&nbsp; Gringo's stand out like a sore thumb at&nbsp;futbol games and because of this, we had a guide with us to keep us safe and&nbsp;ensure&nbsp;that no one would mistake&nbsp;us for fans of the rival team, which would have certainly ended poorly.</span><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TM3j1-yzGFI/AAAAAAAAADM/hf2fyfDdKnQ/s1600/CIMG0052.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" nx="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TM3j1-yzGFI/AAAAAAAAADM/hf2fyfDdKnQ/s400/CIMG0052.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>Christina and I at the Futbol game&nbsp;after the crowd had left.</strong></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Day three</span><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">On our third day, we took a trip to Corcovado.&nbsp; If you've ever seen a picture of Rio, you've likely seen a giant statue of Jesus&nbsp;looking over the city, palms extended.&nbsp;&nbsp;The views are&nbsp;fantastic, so pics are posted, but nothing blog worthy about the experience, except for the swath of Japanese tourists clicking away with their Nikons.&nbsp; After getting back, we headed down to the beach to drink some coconut water and take in the sights.&nbsp; In&nbsp;Rio, the men wear bikini's and the women wear really, really tiny bikinis.&nbsp; It's people watching at its best; the good, the bad and the ugly.&nbsp; Half way into my coconut water, a group of twenty Municipal guards marched unto the beach.&nbsp; These guards are police without guns, but giant wooden batons instead.&nbsp; Christina and I watched and wondered what was about to conspire.&nbsp; Apparently, you cannot play futbol on the&nbsp;beach after four o'clock.&nbsp; As everyone watched, the guards emerged from the crowd with two young guys by the neck, kicking and screaming.&nbsp;&nbsp;A group of their friends rushed the guards and tried to pull the captives away in a tug-of-war match.&nbsp; At this moment, the police took out their batons and started cracking&nbsp;skulls,&nbsp;knees and&nbsp; every bddy part they could connect with.&nbsp; This was my first time watching someone get hit in the face with a giant stick.&nbsp; As I mentioned previously, the police are despised in&nbsp;Brazil and as such, the crowd at the beach did not take kindly to this.&nbsp; Before I knew it, two hundred angry males from the beach (and their man-kinis)&nbsp;rushed the guards, slinging coconuts, chairs and anything they could get thier hands on.&nbsp; This all happened in a matter of seconds and&nbsp;before I knew it, Christina and I were right in the middle of a small riot.&nbsp; I grabbed her and we hauled ass down the beach, seconds before the chairs we were sitting on were picked up and used&nbsp;as weapons against the police.&nbsp; The police eventually retreated and within the hour, the place was swarming with helicoptors and additional police to show their&nbsp;force. Christina and I were a bit shaken, but to be honest, I'm glad we experienced it.&nbsp; It was pretty awesome.</span><br /><br /><br />﻿ <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TM3a5lIvxuI/AAAAAAAAAC8/WxuedxItQXQ/s1600/DSC_0039.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" nx="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TM3a5lIvxuI/AAAAAAAAAC8/WxuedxItQXQ/s400/DSC_0039.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Christ the Redeemer</span></strong></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ <br />﻿﻿ <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TM3cEZrZLmI/AAAAAAAAADA/MP5UBilrYdE/s1600/DSC_0041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="427" nx="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TM3cEZrZLmI/AAAAAAAAADA/MP5UBilrYdE/s640/DSC_0041.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>View from the top of Corcovado</strong></span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿﻿ <span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Later that night</span><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Friday nights in Rio, people bring the heat.&nbsp; There is a giant street party every Friday in Lapa, a neighborhood in Rio.&nbsp;&nbsp;Ten&nbsp;thousand people gather in the streets to drink, fornicate and kill as many brain cells as they possibly can until the sun comes up.&nbsp;&nbsp;Lapa can be a bit shifty, so we were delighted to have Bernardo, our Brazillian hostel mate, lead our hodge podge group of travelers to the party.&nbsp;&nbsp;Whithout Bernardo, we likely would've not made it&nbsp;out of&nbsp;Lapa in one piece.&nbsp; In fact, we&nbsp;likely would've not even had&nbsp;made it there (the metro can be a bit tricky when you dont speak portuguese).&nbsp;&nbsp;Lapa was amazing, you could not&nbsp;have wiped the smile off my face if you tried.&nbsp; The party is compeletly lawless and could never take place in the states.&nbsp; You only bring with you what you are willing to lose, or much more likely, have stolen.&nbsp;&nbsp;By mistake, one of our travel mates brought her small purse to the street party.&nbsp; I eventually lost track of how many times people attempted to steal it.&nbsp; Regardless of the theft, we were not deterred.&nbsp; The group of us danced wildly to&nbsp;Samba music in the street, dranks way too many Caipirinhas (the signature&nbsp;Brazillian drink), chatted with friendly&nbsp;locals and ate questionable street&nbsp;food before heading home at&nbsp;5 a.m.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I cannot decide what my favorite experience in Rio was, but the street party will probably take the cake.&nbsp; People in Rio know how to have fun, at first glance it appears that most of&nbsp;their culture is built around a single&nbsp;purpose: having fun and enjoying life.&nbsp; They work less, they wear less clothes, they work out and eat more fruit and put pleasure in front of work.&nbsp; It's everything that America is not and I love it. &nbsp; Having been traveling a few days now, I'm quickly reminded why we went to such&nbsp; great lenghts to plan this trip.&nbsp; You&nbsp;see a single street in a single neighborhood in a single city, and your view of&nbsp;the world in which you&nbsp;live can change instantly.&nbsp; It's a bit of a drug, but this is one case where addiction may not be so bad.&nbsp; Many people say that&nbsp;nationalism is a disease and the only cure is travel.&nbsp; I'm not&nbsp;certain if I agree, but it&nbsp;does seem to make sense.&nbsp;After reading all of this, you may think Rio is violent and dangerous.&nbsp; It may be a bit differnt than the States, but violent and dangerous it is not,&nbsp; It's a big city and like all big cities, if you trust your gut and use common sense, you will be fine.&nbsp; If you do not,&nbsp; you will suffer the consequence, I promise.&nbsp; Come here, you won't regret it! </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Thanks for following.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><strong>Clay</strong></span><br /><strong><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">p.s. Have had some problems uploading multiple photos to this blog.&nbsp; So, will likely provide a picassa link going forward, as soon as I get a stable connection.</span></strong>Clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012036308662052455noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3311062920813892531.post-48576969535561213612010-10-30T19:01:00.000-07:002010-10-30T19:01:30.585-07:00photolog<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TMzNyX3OkzI/AAAAAAAAACY/uedOQx9eoLY/s1600/christina+and+clay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" nx="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TMzNyX3OkzI/AAAAAAAAACY/uedOQx9eoLY/s320/christina+and+clay.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First day/sunset in Rio.</td></tr></tbody></table>Clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012036308662052455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3311062920813892531.post-6410637530227569892010-10-27T15:39:00.000-07:002010-10-27T15:39:06.453-07:0024 hrs. of travel later: Rio!<span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Greetings from Rio!&nbsp; Lots to see and do, so this will be short.&nbsp; We are excited to start the first leg of our trip.&nbsp; As I sit in a hostel with a french-man (Thomas) and a Chilean ( Enrique) drinking tea, I feel I can exhale for the first time in months.&nbsp; This has been a long time coming and I can say proudly, that I made it.&nbsp; Of course, not without the help of my family, friends and Christina.&nbsp; Some inital pics and video below.</span><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TMiiHEHbWeI/AAAAAAAAACU/M2SWGQncGCw/s1600/coconuts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" nx="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nADhOqO5NUc/TMiiHEHbWeI/AAAAAAAAACU/M2SWGQncGCw/s320/coconuts.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First of many.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowFullScreen='true' webkitallowfullscreen='true' mozallowfullscreen='true' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzc8pC1ZGPoqm21rEK6cjED8mGUJya1oUoTwKhnheEJPih_Dn_dTghgKz9XNeFdfqEvK0jRMadLjHqzv4ZQHQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' FRAMEBORDER='0' /></div></td></tr></tbody></table>Clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012036308662052455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3311062920813892531.post-57641633795494277242010-10-24T18:52:00.000-07:002010-10-24T19:07:14.473-07:00So long, Chicago.<span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Leaving Chicago will certainly be bittersweet.&nbsp; I knew when I arrived that my time here had an expiration date.&nbsp; That date is now two days away and although I at times dreamt of the day I could leave in&nbsp;my dust&nbsp;the crime, poverty, trash that so often embody this city,&nbsp;it's hard&nbsp;to say goodbye.&nbsp;Sadly, I&nbsp;will leave Chicago still very much a stranger in my own city.&nbsp; By nature, I'm inquisitive. If I see a rock, I flip it over to see whats underneath.&nbsp; I've never enjoyed life from the couch much.&nbsp; And as such, I've spent&nbsp;most&nbsp;of my time here seeking out unique experiences with friends&nbsp;and there are no lack of them to be had.&nbsp; Chicago is a maze of neighborhoods and cultures spewing fourth a cornucopia of ethnic&nbsp;eateries, back ally dive bars, bohemian hang outs and eccentric&nbsp;music venues, too many to count.&nbsp; If you live in Chicago and you are bored, then&nbsp;you are just plain lazy and unimaginative.&nbsp; Chicago is a bit of an oxymoron: the most convenient,&nbsp;inconvenient place on earth.&nbsp; Need three dozen tiny, live&nbsp;Korean land crabs and some freshly ripened&nbsp;Daikon kimchi?&nbsp; Not a problem, take the Kennedy and stop off at Jong Boo market.&nbsp; Want a day at the beach?&nbsp; Just head East, it's not far.&nbsp;&nbsp;A professional sports game?&nbsp;&nbsp;Please, take your pick.&nbsp; In the&nbsp;mood for&nbsp;calves brain Marsala at&nbsp;an authentic&nbsp;Pakistani restaurant?&nbsp; Just head up to Devon Avenue.&nbsp; Living in Chicago, everything is at your finger tips.&nbsp; But, throw in a strangers&nbsp;fender bender&nbsp;on the Dan&nbsp;Ryan Expressway, some road construction, or a sporting event and your trip to the store to buy some deodorant can quickly turn into a head spinning three hour debacle where you find yourself chugging mouth wash in the back of a CVS to make your one-mile trip home bearable.&nbsp; </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">In the&nbsp;end, Chicago got the best of me.&nbsp; Too much concrete, to little grass.&nbsp; Too much traffic, sirens and horns,&nbsp;to little tranquility.&nbsp; Chicago is a city that changes you.&nbsp; Once you've lived there long enough, and its gets its paws on you, you will likely never be the same.&nbsp; It is,&nbsp;to some degree, post-traumatic&nbsp;Chicago stress.&nbsp; You will never drive the same, you will never let your guard down when walking home at night and you will likely never anticipate the unsolicited kindness and generosity of someone&nbsp;simply doing their job, as they should.&nbsp;There is a buzz&nbsp;that takes hold of you when you live in a big city and once you leave, it's hard to shake.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Most of my time in&nbsp;Chicago has been spent in the Bucktown neighborhood with the company of a few great friends.&nbsp; Bucktown&nbsp;is one time&nbsp;Polish&nbsp;hub turned artists' community, turned hipster and trendster hangout.&nbsp; I don't understand it, but I love it nonetheless.&nbsp; Like everyone else it seems, I&nbsp;bought a&nbsp;condo in Bucktown during the height of the real estate boom, thinking I could make a quick fortune, invest it in the stock market and spend the rest of my life slinging&nbsp;"Bahama Mamma's" in a beach bar in Mexico.&nbsp; Little&nbsp;did I know, even Mexico would go to shit.&nbsp; Soon after I moved in, Bucktown&nbsp;was overrun with&nbsp;hipsters.&nbsp; It was like Custer's last stand: the hipsters were the Indians and I was with&nbsp;the white man&nbsp;who had invaded their territory.&nbsp;I never quite took to hipsters and I still don't&nbsp;quite like them.&nbsp; Hipsters are a bit of a paradox: a group of&nbsp;young&nbsp;people trying so hard to be different, that in the end, they all&nbsp;essentially become the same thing.&nbsp;</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">In spite of all of&nbsp;the bad experiences I've had in&nbsp;Chicago, the friends I've made and had the pleasure of experiencing&nbsp;this great city with have made it all worth while.&nbsp; I moved to Chicago knowing no one. I&nbsp;slept on my sisters floor&nbsp;with my dog for six months until&nbsp;I was able to find some roommates through an acquaintance.&nbsp; I've met&nbsp;many people in Chicago and I am fortunate enough to walk away with a few life long friends. I'll miss you guys and I'll miss Chicago.&nbsp; Thanks for all the great times.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">So&nbsp;long, Chicago.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><strong>Clay&nbsp;</strong>&nbsp; </span>Clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012036308662052455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3311062920813892531.post-51744695720589372022010-10-20T14:58:00.000-07:002010-10-20T14:58:00.609-07:00Change isn't easy...<span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">During the process of&nbsp;uprooting my life in Chicago, I've learned some valuable lessons, the most important of which I already somewhat knew: change is one bitch of an adversary and it fights you every step of the way.&nbsp; Change isn't easy and most people avoid it for that very reason.&nbsp; Small changes are enough to throw most people off kilter; you change your parking spot, your commute to work, you move apartments, and it takes time to adjust.</span>&nbsp; <br /><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">I have spent the last six weeks working&nbsp;feverishly&nbsp;to create my own change, at times even questioning my own rationale.&nbsp; Every aspect of my life, from top to bottom, is about to change dramatically.&nbsp; And for some reason, I&nbsp;purposefully signed up for this insanity.&nbsp; Leaving&nbsp;Chicago after more than five years and resigning from the only company&nbsp;I have worked for post-college has been extremely difficult.&nbsp; And, planning a two month trip around South America immediately following my departure from&nbsp;Chicago has, at times, been downright stomach churning.&nbsp; Below you'll find my shotgun guide for what it took and how long:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><u><strong>Shotgun Guide to Change</strong></u></span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">-Refinance condo (3 months)</span><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">-Remove rooftop deck and replace roof on entire condo building (2 months)</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">-Rent out condo (3 days)</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">-Move all worldly possessions 350 miles away and place in storage (5 days)</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">-Move in with sister,&nbsp;girlfriend and pooch in 900 SQ&nbsp;ft.&nbsp;apartment (3 weeks)</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">-Resign from newly promoted position at Tribune Media Group (15 minutes)</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">-Create blog to document&nbsp;life from scratch&nbsp;(3.5 weeks)</span><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">-Learn how to blog on recently created blog site (ongoing)</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">-Research and plan&nbsp;two month trip around South America (ongoing)</span><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">-Purchase of countless trinkets and&nbsp;gear&nbsp;needed for traveling an entire continent (ongoing)</span><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">-Visit travel doctor and get all necessary immunizations/antibiotics/malaria pills&nbsp;(2.5 hours)</span><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">-Visa for Brazil and all required documents (2 weeks planning, 1 hour waiting)</span><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">-Visit dentist to ensure all teeth are legit before losing dental coverage (3 hours)</span><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">-Cancel auto insurance (1 hour)</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">-Sign up for a new cell phone and new cell phone plan (1 hour)</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">-Create multiple new banking accounts for travel and rental&nbsp;unit&nbsp;(2 hours)</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">-Sign up for basic health coverage while traveling and unemployed (1.5 hours)</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">-Sign up for auto-pay on mortgage, car loan, credit cards and insurance (45 minutes)</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">-Ensure proper funds to pay&nbsp;all of the above while gone&nbsp;(ongoing)</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">-Change mailing address and contact information for all financial accounts (1 day)</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">-Convince parents that all of this&nbsp;is STILL a good idea (ongoing)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Above are the highlights, but&nbsp;the actual list is&nbsp;long enough to make your head spin.&nbsp; Am I crazy?&nbsp;&nbsp;Maybe.&nbsp; Or, just perfectly sane in an insane world.&nbsp; If you are looking to make your own change and want to avoid an ulcer or complete nervous breakdown,&nbsp;I <span style="background-color: yellow;"><span style="background-color: white;">recommend</span></span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span>giving&nbsp;yourself at least a six-month head start.&nbsp; Eventually, smaller details fall by the wayside and the bigger picture comes into focus.&nbsp; I have had very little time&nbsp;to plan my future throughout this process. But sometimes, as has proven to be the case with me, escaping&nbsp;your past is one of&nbsp;the only things&nbsp;that will lift the blinds on your future.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Thank you for joining me on this adventure.&nbsp; The rest of the site&nbsp;should be up and&nbsp;running soon.&nbsp; Thanks for your patience.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>Clay&nbsp;</strong></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><em>"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover." </em>— <a class="authorNameRegular" href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/1655.Mark_Twain"><span style="color: #663300;">Mark Twain</span></a> </span><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012036308662052455noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3311062920813892531.post-39350468975407950212010-10-19T15:11:00.000-07:002010-10-19T15:11:35.664-07:00And so it begins...<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: auto 0in 30pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">What am I doing?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>What. Am. I. Doing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>These four words have ricocheted around in my head for the better part of the last three years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It’s a great question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And the answer is an evolving one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>What am I doing now?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The answer to that question at this precise moment is simple: I’m starting over. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>The logic, however,&nbsp;has not always been&nbsp;so transparent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>What I am doing is purposefully walking away from the very things most Americans spend their entire lives trying attain: financial stability, job security and a comfortable, predictable future.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Today I resigned from my job as an advertising executive at the largest privately owned media group in the country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I have moved out of my condo in Chicago’s Bucktown neighborhood and rented out all three rooms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I have put nearly all of my possessions in a storage facility 350 miles away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I have sent my best friend and four-legged partner in crime, Lola, home to live with my parents in Indiana.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And, in one week, I will be out of a job, out of Chicago for good, and hopping on an international flight to South America with my two-legged partner in crime and the woman that I love, Christina.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: auto 0in 30pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">As a child, I dreamt of becoming many things when I grew up: a karate master, veterinarian, a chef or a filmmaker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Suffice it to say, while practicing with my homemade make-shift num-chucks in my backyard and cultivating a worm farm in the damp crawl space underneath my childhood home, I could have never predicted my current situation: Five years spent hunched over a computer in a 5’x 6’ synthetic taupe box underneath the drone of florescent lighting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>My ten-year-old self would be ashamed at how easily I let my dreams die.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Knowing the end of my corporate career is near, I have taken inventory of my cube: One black, second-hand stapler.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>One telephone that was likely white 30 years ago, but now appears the shade of a bad smoking habit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>Countless binders and trapper-keepers filled with marketing and sales collateral (never opened). One wall-sized calendar with intermittent tally marks noting pay days and today – The Day- in particular.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Three calculators, one briefcase, one picture each of my girlfriend, my dog and my nephews—tacked to the cork board.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>One inspiration quote, reminding me that pursing a life that is meaningful to oneself requires courage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And last but not least, one computer, one grease-stained keyboard and one mouse, in front of which I spend roughly 40 hours a week sitting, doing my job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>As a kid and a dreamer, I foolishly thought that while working, I would be surrounded by things that I loved, things I cared about, things that inspired, things that were connected to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Instead, my tools of the trade are meaningless, inanimate objects—their connection to me never extending beyond the computation of my commission from that day’s sale.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: auto 0in 30pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Here’s some rough math: Life = 1/3 of time spent sleeping + 2/3 time spent awake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>If you work an average of eight hours a day, you spend nearly half of your fully conscious adult life working.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The past five years, I have lived a life considered by most societal norms to be a privileged one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And no doubt, it has been.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I have had a well-paying job with an expense account, full benefits and an office on Michigan Avenue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I have been able to buy a nice condo, a nice car and countless gadgets I never needed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>If there were a barometer to measure success in this country, the metrics would most certainly be linked to the amount of “things” one can acquire and the requisite money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>As a society, we’re obsessed with “things”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The more of them you have, the more successful you have been.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And, by that measure, I have done pretty well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Until recently, “What am I doing?” was somewhat a rhetorical question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I knew exactly what I was doing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I was doing what most other Americans were doing, what I was supposed to be doing, right? I was working a job that gave me zero fulfillment, making money and acquiring lots of “things” to make that eight-hour void seem worthwhile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And, I was comfortable, which scared the shit out of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And in some part, is responsible for this change, even this very blog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>To some people, such as myself, being comfortable is a bit of a paradox.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>People spend their entire lives trying to find a place where they are comfortable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Then, they ride it out straight to the grave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>This is not a life that I want.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I do not want to look back at my life and regret never having the balls to pursue a career and a life that holds meaning for me, one in which I have fulfillment and a connection to my work, simply because I was too scared to be uncomfortable.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: auto 0in 30pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">What am I doing?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I am quitting my job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I am backpacking in South America for two months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I am finding a new city to call home where I will start a new life and a new career, with new friends and new experiences.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And, I am doing all of this without a plan, but with a simple goal in mind: happiness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Years from now I will likely look back on this decision as either one of sheer brilliance, or blind ignorance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But, the journey is certain to be unforgettable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>This is my life from scratch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Thank you for joining me on my adventure.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: auto 0in 30pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: auto 0in 30pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Clay</span> </strong></span></div>Clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012036308662052455noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3311062920813892531.post-78281072239204400172010-10-05T12:29:00.005-07:002010-10-05T12:29:41.259-07:00PhotologClayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012036308662052455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3311062920813892531.post-91843019799393039572010-10-05T12:29:00.003-07:002010-11-04T14:37:19.495-07:00About & Contact<span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>Below you'll find my first post on this site.&nbsp; This, for the most part, sums up what this whole blog and this journey is about.&nbsp; I am not trying to find myself, I already know who I am. And the person I've been for the past five years has at times, been a bit of&nbsp;a stranger.&nbsp; Hope you enjoy following me on&nbsp;what is certain to be a wild ride.</strong></span><br /><br />E: <a href="mailto:clay.markwell@gmail.com">clay.markwell@gmail.com</a><br /><br /><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: auto 0in 30pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">What am I doing?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>What. Am. I. Doing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>These four words have ricocheted around in my head for the better part of the last three years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It’s a great question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And the answer is an evolving one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>What am I doing now?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The answer to that question at this precise moment is simple: I’m starting over. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>The logic, however,&nbsp;has not always been&nbsp;so transparent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>What I am doing is purposefully walking away from the very things most Americans spend their entire lives trying attain: financial stability, job security and a comfortable, predictable future.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Today I resigned from my job as an advertising executive at the largest privately owned media group in the country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I have moved out of my condo in Chicago’s Bucktown neighborhood and rented out all three rooms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I have put nearly all of my possessions in a storage facility 350 miles away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I have sent my best friend and four-legged partner in crime, Lola, home to live with my parents in Indiana.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And, in one week, I will be out of a job, out of Chicago for good, and hopping on an international flight to South America with my two-legged partner in crime and the woman that I love, Christina.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: auto 0in 30pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">As a child, I dreamt of becoming many things when I grew up: a karate master, veterinarian, a chef or a filmmaker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Suffice it to say, while practicing with my homemade make-shift num-chucks in my backyard and cultivating a worm farm in the damp crawl space underneath my childhood home, I could have never predicted my current situation: Five years spent hunched over a computer in a 5’x 6’ synthetic taupe box underneath the drone of florescent lighting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>My ten-year-old self would be ashamed at how easily I let my dreams die.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Knowing the end of my corporate career is near, I have taken inventory of my cube: One black, second-hand stapler.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>One telephone that was likely white 30 years ago, but now appears the shade of a bad smoking habit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>Countless binders and trapper-keepers filled with marketing and sales collateral (never opened). One wall-sized calendar with intermittent tally marks noting pay days and today – The Day- in particular.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Three calculators, one briefcase, one picture each of my girlfriend, my dog and my nephews—tacked to the cork board.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>One inspirational quote, reminding me that pursing a life that is meaningful to oneself requires courage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And last but not least, one computer, one grease-stained keyboard and one mouse, in front of which I spend roughly 40 hours a week sitting, doing my job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>As a kid and a dreamer, I foolishly thought that while working, I would be surrounded by things that I loved, things I cared about, things that inspired, things that were connected to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Instead, my tools of the trade are meaningless, inanimate objects—their connection to me never extending beyond the computation of my commission from that day’s sale.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: auto 0in 30pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">Here’s some rough math: Life = 1/3 of time spent sleeping + 2/3 time spent awake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>If you work an average of eight hours a day, you spend nearly half of your fully conscious adult life working.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The past five years, I have lived a life considered by most societal norms to be a privileged one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And no doubt, it has been.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I have had a well-paying job with an expense account, full benefits and an office on Michigan Avenue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I have been able to buy a nice condo, a nice car and countless gadgets I never needed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>If there were a barometer to measure success in this country, the metrics would most certainly be linked to the amount of “things” one can acquire and the requisite money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>As a society, we’re obsessed with “things”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The more of them you have, the more successful you have been.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And, by that measure, I have done pretty well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Until recently, “What am I doing?” was somewhat a rhetorical question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I knew exactly what I was doing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I was doing what most other Americans were doing, what I was supposed to be doing, right? I was working a job that gave me zero fulfillment, making money and acquiring lots of “things” to make that eight-hour void seem worthwhile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And, I was comfortable, which scared the shit out of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And in some part, is responsible for this change, even this very blog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>To some people, such as myself, being comfortable is a bit of a paradox.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>People spend their entire lives trying to find a place where they are comfortable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Then, they ride it out straight to the grave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>This is not a life that I want.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I do not want to look back at my life and regret never having the balls to pursue a career and a life that holds meaning for me, one in which I have fulfillment and a connection to my work, simply because I was too scared to be uncomfortable.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: auto 0in 30pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;">What am I doing?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I am quitting my job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I am backpacking in South America for two months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I am finding a new city to call home where I will start a new life and a new career, with new friends and new experiences.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And, I am doing all of this without a plan, but with a simple goal in mind: happiness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Years from now I will likely look back on this decision as either one of sheer brilliance, or blind ignorance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But, the journey is certain to be unforgettable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>This is my life from scratch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Thank you for joining me on my adventure.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: auto 0in 30pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif;"><strong>Clay</strong></span></div>Clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012036308662052455noreply@blogger.com6